


Dust to Dust

by Ghilatashi



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Genre: Blood and Gore, Creepypasta, Fluff and Angst, Future smut? Maybe?, Heavy Angst, M/M, Sex, Slow Burn, i swear they're gonna be ok, literally just a bunch of angst, they finally kissed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2019-11-08 16:25:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 117,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17984600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghilatashi/pseuds/Ghilatashi
Summary: I stop dead in my tracks, ash beginning to trickle from my lashes, and spin around to face him with a snarl. "Fuck you.""Is that an invitation?" He's baiting me. And, like an idiot, I fall for it. Just like always.





	1. Chapter 1

I punch the mirror so hard my knuckles pop.

 

It shatters, of fucking course it does, because I can’t control my strength any more than I can control the weather. No one’s around - at least I hope. I don’t give a shit if some dude walking by sees me throwing one of my daily tantrums in some old junkyard, but if one of _them_ see it - God, they’d never let me live it down. Especially Jeff.

 

The thought of him taunting me for not being able to keep my power under control sends another wave of anger through my body, through my arm and out of my fingers where sparks begin crackling, so hot they leave an empty pocket of air before it collapses. I want to hit something again. I _need_ to hit something again, because if I don’t get this extra steam out, I’m going to explode on someone.

 

For a moment, just for a moment, I think that maybe having Slenderman kill me for turning one of his lackeys into a charred husk would be preferable to the hell I’m currently stuck in.

 

For a _split_ second I consider lighting that whole fucking house on fire with everyone trapped inside. I could do it - summon those blue flames that can’t be put out by water. Set the whole goddamn forest ablaze.

 

I shake my head and survey my hand. My knuckles are skinned and bloody, the stuff is practically smeared all the way up my arm. There are small shards of glass stuck in the wound, too, and it’s going to be a bitch having EJ pull them out. Despite constantly being on fire inside, my pain tolerance is shit.

 

I run a shaky hand through my hair, not caring if I’m smearing blood all over my face. It’ll mix in with the soot that flutters from my eyelashes whenever I get angry. I can feel it falling now; ashes, smearing against my pallid skin under my eyes. I’ll have to scrub my face to get it out.

 

It’s not a long walk back to the mansion. I take a jagged shortcut through the woods, ignoring the jars hanging from the trees. Warning signs, known only by a select few. There are notes, too, tacked inconspicuously to trees. Slenderman’s a greedy bitch; always taking someone in regardless of whether or not they’re physically or mentally capable. We had a girl touch a note a couple weeks ago. She killed herself the other day.

 

There’s a wych elm in the center of two large oaks, in a clearing deeper into the woods. A few yards past that is the mansion in reality - decrepit, hundreds of years old, the roof caved in and sagging, vines having long since taken over the cracked stone. The front yard is overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. There’s a tree growing in the center of what used to be the living room. Windows are cracked and shattered, years-old graffiti on nearly every wall, the fountain in the front toppled over.

 

Only those with Slenderman’s mark - the O with the X through it - can pass through the Veil. I do so easily, and the reality around me ripples until I step out into a totally different scene.

 

The mansion, only it’s inhabited; no longer abandoned, no longer in a state of ruin. I walk up to the front porch, ignoring the woman leaning against the railing with a cigarette between her fingers. I don’t know the names of most of the people here. We don’t really speak to each other unless we’re the type who rarely travels. That’s only a select few; Jeff, Ben, Sally, EJ, and maybe Jack. Helen’s usually around somewhere, too, but he hardly shows up.

 

It’s afternoon, and sunset is approaching. The sky’s already orange, there are crickets buzzing, and I can see the faintest hint of lightning bugs near the edge of the gloomy forest surrounding the mansion. The woman grunts in acknowledgement as I march past her, and I consider throwing her a glare, but the people around here are temperamental. Slenderman doesn’t want me getting into any more fights, since last time I incinerated the area and nearly killed the man I was brawling with.

 

The screen door is set away from the _actual_ entrance, because even though we’re accustomed to the grandeur of the place, we think the front door is too . . . extra. It opens into a vestibule that no one’s ever in, and there’s a short hallway that leads into the living room the screen door is connected to. It’s cozy inside, as cozy as it can possibly be. A room full of killers. The thought makes my blood churn. Not with fear, though. I’ve been exposed to the bullshit around here too long for that.

 

“You’re back,” comes a familiar voice, warm and animated, and I turn to see EJ with his arms full of papers. His mask is off, revealing his ashen skin and empty sockets that occasionally start dripping an odd, oil-like black substance. EJ is the only one I can stand around here. He’s the only one with a sense of self-preservation, with a sense of rationality. He doesn’t start fights. Keeps to himself, mostly, and his stem cell research or whatever the fuck he’s doing in the lab. He’s close with Helen. I suppose that if I knew Helen, I might like him, too.

 

I give EJ the best smile I can, and it’s still a bit shaky. “Yeah. Needed to blow some steam.”

 

EJ’s blind. It’s not a big surprise, really, since he doesn’t have eyes, but somehow he always manages to tell who is who without hearing them speak. I don’t ever delve into that subject - EJ doesn’t like being reminded of his disability. I suspect one of the reasons he’s so close to Helen is because he can’t look through microscopes.

 

“I smell blood,” he says. EJ isn’t worried. Not in the slightest. I could be shot through the chest and he’d remain calm. He wasn’t like that at first, though. He used to fret whenever I came back caked in my own blood and ashes. Wouldn’t let me leave the infirmary until he deemed it was time. After a while, though, me being bruised and bloody became the norm. He stopped worrying.  

 

“I’m surprised you don’t smell smoke.” I try to keep my voice neutral.

 

“Oh, I definitely smell that.” The corners of his lips twitch. “Where are you hurt?”

 

“Knuckles.” I raise my hand to observe it; it’s already clotted, but it hurts like hell. EJ doesn’t pry any further. We’ve been through this many times; I follow him to the infirmary, he goes straight to the drawer the first-aid kits are kept in, and while he reads the Braille labels, I make myself comfortable in a chair.

 

EJ runs his thumb over the wound and his eyebrows raise a little as he feels the bits of glass. He doesn’t say anything. I wonder if it’s because he doesn’t care, or if he’s afraid I’ll get angry and set the room on fire. Honestly, though, I wouldn’t blame him. I’d be weary, too, around some angsty brat with a tendency to explode unpredictably.

 

It takes him only ten minutes to patch up my hand. As he’s putting things away, I eye the bandages and glance up. “Is it going to scar?” I ask quietly.

 

“Given your tendency to heal, I would say you don’t have to worry about scarring,” he says. Calm and professional, like always. “Though, if it does start to, I have salve that will help.” EJ knows how much I hate scars, especially after witnessing my meltdown over seeing my back in a mirror. A mangled slab of flesh.

 

“Thank you,” I say. I mean it, and EJ knows that. At least I hope he does.

 

“Don’t skip dinner,” he says as I leave the room. “I’ll have to force food down your throat with a shovel.”

 

I roll my eyes. “I’ll be there, _mom_.”

 

I have to go through the living room to get to my room, which is on one of the many hallways. It’s actually the only occupied room on that hall, which I’m grateful for. I don’t need to listen to Brian and Tim arguing all hours of the night, or Sally talking to that weird bear she carries around, or Zero and Puppet having wild sex with no regards to the people trying to sleep in the rooms around them.

 

I take one look at Jeff and go to turn back around and help EJ sort bacteria samples.

 

Too late, he sees me, and I want to wipe that grin off his face. I _could_ wipe that grin off his face, if I really wanted to, but I think if I did that, Slenderman would rip my guts out. There’d be only momentary pleasure in watching the life fade from his unfairly pretty blue eyes.

 

“Had another tantrum?” Jeff says with a sly grin. He’s leaning over the bookshelf, twirling a knife. I’ve always wondered why he goes with knives instead of something more practical, more deadly. He’s human, unlike most. He can’t fuck with people’s heads like LJ, or jump through TV screens like Ben. He could carry a glock, but he prefers ‘more personal ways of killing people.’

 

Jeff _really_ hates pedophiles. And rapists. And everyone in between. Maybe putting a bullet in their heads isn’t enough for him. I can kinda get that.

 

He’s still an asshole, though.

 

I try ignoring him - _God_ , I try ignoring him to the best of my ability - but when he says my name again, something inside me snaps. I stop dead in my tracks, ash beginning to trickle from my lashes, and spin around to face him with a snarl. “ _Fuck_ you.”

 

“Is that an invitation?” He’s baiting me. And, like an idiot, I fall for it. Just like always.

 

LJ’s the one who breaks us up. He doesn’t bother grabbing me - I won’t stop fighting, and I might burn him. He wraps his arms around Jeff and holds him still while he thrashes for a moment. I feel the magic building up in my chest, begging to be released, and the thought of a burnout is what keeps me from lunging for Jeff again.

 

“Are you _fucking_ serious?” LJ hisses, his silver eyes trained on me. I take long, shuddering breaths to calm myself, fighting to push the magic down. Ash is practically _snowing_ from my eyelashes, from my hair. I look at Jeff to assess the damage.

 

He has a bloody nose. Busted lip. I managed to scratch his neck before he elbowed me in the jaw, which is probably going to leave a nasty bruise. I look at his arms and my stomach rolls. I burned him. Slenderman’s gonna kill me.

 

“Voy a destruir tu vida y todo lo que amas,” Jeff spits.

 

I ignore him and rush out of the living room, leaving a trail of dust behind me. I feel like I’m going to be sick, and I probably will be. The magic is tearing at my chest, demanding release, demanding to be used to wreak destruction. It’s almost as painful as that empty feeling in my chest, the void where my soul should be.

 

I slam my door shut once I reach my room and collapse to the floor. I sit there for what feels like hours, shaking violently, trying to recollect myself enough to stagger to my feet and make it into the bathroom before puking. Blood, stomach acid, and whatever I had for breakfast. I blearily reach for the bathtub and pull one of the handles - cold water - all the way towards me. It hurts even to peel my clothes off.

 

I somehow manage to slide myself into the water, freezing cold and cutting across my skin like knives, but everything feels so much _better_. The burning is gone, the flames in the pit of my stomach have been put out. Bits of ash float in the water, but I don’t care. I slide further into the freezing water, my aching bones settling as I let the coolness envelope me. A momentary relief from the constant burning.

 

Slenderman calls me into his office. The mark on the back of my hand throbs three times as I’m curled up under my blankets trying to shut the world out. I ignore him. That’s unheard of for me, since I’d rather grovel at his feet than have to run five miles at the asscrack of dawn as punishment for insubordination, but I physically _cannot_ drag myself down there. I can’t do anything but lie in bed and shiver. The sudden absence of heat from the near-burnout has left me freezing.

 

Eventually there’s a knock on my door. I don’t bother getting up or saying anything. Only one person would bother with me.

 

EJ sits on the edge of my bed after letting himself in. He’s been in my room enough times to know where everything is. I never rearrange. I feel him patting the bed, searching for me, and then resting his hand on my arm. “You’re cold.”

 

“Yeah, no shit,” I say. My throat is dry, voice cracked and hoarse. “I almost had a burnout.”

 

“I know. LJ told me.” EJ sighs. “Jeff’s fine. Ready to kill you, but fine.”

 

“Good for him.”

 

“How are you feeling?” he asks gently. When I don’t answer, his grip on my arm tightens. Just slightly. Just enough for me to know that he’s dead serious. “Aeron.”

 

“I’m tired,” I say quietly. “Weak. Really hungry.” Magic depletes my energy insanely fast, especially when I’m approaching a burnout. But I don’t feel like eating. Or showing my face around anyone. I just feel like staying in bed until I die and rot.

 

“How are you mentally?” EJ continues.

 

I think for a moment. It’s been forever since I’ve opened up even slightly. It’s been _forever_ since I trusted someone with something like personal information. With feelings. The thought makes my chest tighten. I debate in my head whether I should be honest. It might help, because I know EJ is going to regurgitate everything I say to Slenderman, and maybe he’ll have some pity for once.

 

“Depressed,” I say plainly.

 

“Suicidal?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“What else?” he presses. I don’t know what he’s getting at.

 

“Detached,” I say calmly, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice. “Angry. I’m angry all the time. Lonely, I guess.”

 

EJ takes a breath. It sounds like he’s trying to steady his voice, too. “What about Jeff? What are your feelings towards him?”

 

Ah. There it is.

 

I briefly wonder just how much EJ is telling Slenderman. Maybe he’s told him every nasty thing I’ve ever said while helping around the lab. The thought of EJ loyally just . . . _telling_ him everything, especially when he knows how much I need a friendship, how much I need to be able to trust someone . . . I don’t know how to respond. I want to be angry, but my magic is depleted for now, and I’m exhausted.

 

“That’s none of your business,” I say coldly.

 

“I know you had -”

 

“Don’t you _dare_ finish that sentence,” I snap, jerking my arm from his grasp despite enjoying the physical contact.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. Guilt toils in the pit of my stomach.

 

“Sorry,” I say through gritted teeth. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I can’t help it. I’m sorry.”

 

“Well, you are a Behemoth,” EJ says, amusement back into his voice. “And your affinity is fire. You being incredibly volatile is to be expected. If you’d like, I can see what I can do about it. Would you be okay with medication?”

 

“Anything’s fine.”

 

I think for a moment.

 

“Except yoga.”

 

EJ laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind. Are you able to walk?”

 

“I couldn’t even get dressed,” I admit. I can tell EJ’s frowning. I roll my eyes. “That means I’m naked, Jack.”

 

“Ah. Do you need help?”

 

I _really_ consider that offer. After near-burnouts, I’m so depleted of energy that even moving my arm becomes a task. I’ve only ever had an actual burnout once, during training, when Slenderman pushed me to reach to the bottom of my magic reserves. I hadn’t been aware that I caught everything on fire, that no one could even come close.

 

After that, breathing had been hard. Painful. I was in bed for a week recovering. The memory makes me shiver.

 

“No, I think I’ve got it,” I say finally.

 

“Don’t skip dinner,” says EJ. I don’t bother telling him that I was _fully_ planning on skipping dinner until my near-burnout with Jeff. He’d just lecture me, and I’m not in the mood for a lecture.

 

When EJ leaves, I throw the blankets off of me and slowly stand up. I can hardly feel my legs, and as soon as I take a step, the world goes upside down. I have to grab onto the wall for support and slowly make my way to the dresser.

 

Like I said before, my room is the only one on this hall. The mansion has a tower-like thing over the greenhouse that only I’m ever in, and my room is situated in the center of that tower. I’ve never been in anyone else’s room before, but mine seems unnecessarily luxurious. There’s a walk-in closet that I never use, a marble bathroom, and a _huge_ rounded window that overlooks the front yard. I have it covered up at all times.

 

It makes sense that Slenderman would assign me a room so far from everyone else.

 

I make the mistake of glancing at myself in the mirror.

 

When I first came here, I looked relatively normal. Peach-colored skin, brown hair, hazel eyes. Now, though, I look like an alien of some sort. My hair, fluffy and untamable, is bone-white, even down to the roots. My skin is even paler, if that’s possible. My eyes are no longer hazel; the more I use my magic, the brighter color of gold they become, with a single ring of crimson in the center and smaller flecks of blue. They’re more unsettling with my lack of a pupil and snow-white lashes.

 

All the hair on my body has been singed off. It’s only by pure willpower I still have eyebrows, though they’re so white you can hardly see them against my skin. I used to have a septum piercing, but I’d taken it out after we realized that iron and steel makes my magic flare up even worse.

 

I get dressed in my usual getup; all black clothes, for hiding any ash that my hair or lashes might produce. A long-sleeved shirt, oversized just enough so that I can hide my hands under the sleeve. Tight-fitting black jeans. Buckle-up boots that make me five inches taller. I consider grabbing a jacket, because I’m still cold as hell, but I decide against it. Once my energy is back, I’ll heat up quick.

 

No one meets my gaze as I walk into the dining hall. We like to call it a mess hall; gives it that fantasy-like ring. I never see Jeff in here. Actually, I never see him eating period. He’s got some paranoia disorder.

 

My mouth waters at the smell, and I already feel my magic perking up in interest at the food. I take a seat, ignoring everybody else, and fight to remain civil while making a plate.

 

I’d been vegetarian when I first got here. That quickly failed. My magic demands iron, for some reason, and I found that meat helps. I’d also been so low on protein that I continuously collapsed.

 

I more or less inhale my food. There’s beef and oysters, and although I hate seafood with a passion, I end up shucking around ten of them. My magic instantly draws me towards whatever has more iron; beans, baked potatoes, some dried apricots, peas, two whole peaches, broccoli, brown rice, pasta, and a few slices of bread.

 

No one seems surprised that I’m eating enough food for three people.

 

As I’m reaching for another peach, I see Jeff walk in looking sour. My magic, freshly renewed, instantly curls, rising up into my throat. I press it down. _Don’t you dare act up now. He’s fine. He’s just getting food._

 

I see EJ going over to him, saying something, and notice the way Jeff pivots to leave before EJ grabs his arm. I snort. So EJ threatened him into coming to dinner, too.

 

My magic flares up as someone walks past. I glance in their direction and see they have multiple piercings. Probably stainless steel. I’ve never even seen that person before.

 

Jeff sits down with a defeated look, and EJ sits next to him, as if to get ready to grab him if he decides to run. I bite into my peach and lean back.

 

My stomach growls. How am I _still_ hungry? It’s a miracle I’m not overweight (in fact, I’m one of the skinniest people in the place). But, then again, my magic takes up all of my energy. There isn’t an ounce of carbohydrates or calories or whatever for my body to use. My magic demands it all.

 

As I’m cutting into another potato, I hear Jeff speaking to EJ in Spanish. Of _course_ EJ would know Spanish.

 

I try picking up enough of their conversation to put into Google Translate. _Consumido. Preocupado. Amable_.

 

Consumed. Preoccupied? Apples??

 

“Aeron.” Upon hearing my name, my body stiffens and I look up. It’s Kagekao, some demon that I hardly ever speak to. “それはトビーから聞きました.”

 

I shift. “Oh. Did you?”

 

“元気ですか?” Kagekao leans against the table.

 

“お腹すいた,” I say, hoping that my translation isn’t too shitty. Kagekao tilts his head, and I sigh. “元気です.”

 

He nods. “それは良かった.”

 

I lean back in the chair and frown. “You wouldn’t be talking to me if you didn’t need something.”

 

“Can’t I be worried about my friend’s well-being?” Kagekao says amiably.

 

“No, because we aren’t friends.” I turn from him, focusing my attention on Jeff across the table. He isn’t eating, just sitting there with his chin resting in his hands, talking to Ben. EJ has stopped trying to get him to eat anything. At least Jeff has started coming out of his room more often. Guess he’s been taking his medicine.

 

I turn back around and glare at Kagekao. “We aren’t friends.”

 

“Do you even have friends?” he asks placidly.

 

I clench my hands, feeling my palms warming up. “Are you certain,” I say slowly, through clenched teeth, “it’s a good idea to test my patience?”

 

Kagekao only chuckles and taps the edge of his mask. “Is Hodek the only one allowed to test your patience?”

 

I glance back at Jeff and we make eye contact. I give him a glare and jerk my gaze back to the demon sitting next to me. “Yes.”

 

He snorts. “Two weeks.”

 

“What?”

 

But he’s already walking off, adjusting that stupid scarf he always wears. I want to choke him with it.

 

I’m the first to leave the dining hall, like usual. Almost everyone is in there, so I don’t have to worry about running into someone I don’t like in the hallways. The mark on my hand begins itching again, a feeble red glow emitting from it, and I wince at the thought of sitting in that oversized seat with Slenderman sitting quietly on the other side of the desk. The longer I ignore him, the worse my punishment is going to be.

 

I’d gladly take a thousand pushups and a week of doing the dishes for a nap, though, so I place my other hand over the scar to smother the heat and hurry off to my bedroom.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wasn't actually expecting anyone to read this. huh. 
> 
> TW for self-harm.

I’m usually in one of three places; the abandoned library in the southern part of the mansion, my bedroom, or the greenhouse. Slenderman’s mansion is _huge_ , and I’m pretty sure it has something to do with magic, but most of the rooms disappear and reappear at unconventional times. Since I’ve gotten here, I’ve mapped over 200 rooms that occasionally disappear. The abandoned library was one of the first I stumbled across.

 

It looks like no one’s been in there for hundreds of years. There was so much dust in the air that I choked for a good fifteen minutes while dusting. There aren’t any windows, so I had to steal an air purifier from the living room. So far no one’s noticed.

 

There’s furniture in the room. Velvet couches that look like they’ve been through some shit. They were so dusty than when I jumped on them, a cloud of dirt smacked me in the face.

 

I tried guessing the age of the place. There are old, medieval-style sconces on the stone walls. The bookshelves are crudely made, and every book is either in Old English, Latin, or some other runic language that Google Translate couldn’t pick up. I haven’t found a single wall socket. The oldest book (and yes, I’ve gone through and catalogued the 3,456 books in the library) dates back to 400 BC. I have no idea what it’s about. It’s written in Hebrew or something. Some of the books were even bound in human flesh - those are my favorites.

 

 _Mors Gloria_ is the only book that I’ve actually taken up to reading. The whole thing is in Latin, and Google Translate was having aneurysms trying to understand it, so I started taking Duolingo courses to read some of the shit. I found it about a year ago, and I’m only halfway through. There are around 3,000 pages.

 

So far, from what I can understand, it’s a book on necromancy - an ancient type of magic, practiced by some group of witches in some Pagan coven. I was really interested in the methods until I read the part about hematophagy.

 

The library never vanishes, but I’d asked LJ about it a few nights after I’d discovered it and he’d given me an odd look. Said there’s only one library, and it’s next to the small kitchen. He’d showed me it, but the library he was talking about was . . . modern. It had ceiling lights, huge windows, and a bunch of newer books.

 

From then on, I didn’t tell anyone about my library. I don’t think I’m supposed to even know about it.

 

I still find things here and there. There was a human skull with some writings on the skull under an old desk that I placed on the only couch I’d ever been able to get clean. There was a box of what looked like gold coins, some chunks of emerald, and a bunch of quartz crystals. A golden crown with a pretty crystal I still haven’t been able to name in the center.

 

Since discovering the old library, I’ve become really protective of it. It’s the only place in the mansion where I feel completely safe, which is slightly odd, considering there are books on how to take people apart without killing them and actual human remains down there. I would spend more time in the greenhouse, but Jeff sometimes goes down there, and I don’t want to accidentally get riled up and set everything on fire. He’s such an aggressive dickwad that it’s hard seeing him taking care of flowers. But since he’s been down there more often, the plants look healthier. At least he’s good for something.

 

After burning him and being an asshole to Ben in the hallway the morning after, I decide to grab my ipod and run down to the library. I walk down an old hallway that’s been completely overrun with old boxes and cobwebs, crawl under a boarded-up door with a hole in the bottom, jump through where a window used to be in the second hallway, cross the old courtyard, enter _another_ hallway, go up a flight of stairs, take a left, and slip into the library.

 

I’ve concluded that the southern part of the mansion is the oldest. It has a slight French style of architecture, with most of the railings being gilded, some statues being carved in the walls, and marble floors _everywhere_. It’s impossible to move quietly through without my boots echoing off the ground.

 

I shut the library door behind me and breathe out. Since I’ve been cleaning, the air quality has improved. It’s not wet or dusty anymore. I grab a few logs of wood and kneel in front of the fireplace. I toss the logs in and hold my hands on top of them. My fingers spark, there’s a sizzling noise, a few puffs of black smoke, and then a flame that I send a wave of energy to. The area quickly warms up once the fire gets going.

 

I summon a small fireball in the palm of my hand and begin lighting the sconces. Once they’re all lit, and the back portion of the library isn’t dark, I sink into the couch near the fire and grab _Mors Gloria_ from the table. The library is the only place where I don’t have to worry about catching things on fire. I’m grateful for the space.

 

I flip to the next chapter of _Mors Gloria_. Evocation.

  


* * *

 

 

I don’t like Aeron. For multiple reasons.

 

He smells like burning. If you touch him, all the heat in your body is sucked out of you. There’s something about him - maybe it’s his hair, or his skin, or the ash that’s always caked around his eyes - that seems slightly off. I think he ingests more iron supplements than actual food, and that’s really saying something, considering he eats enough for a family.

 

No one else likes him that much, either, except maybe EJ. We did when he first came here - he was like everyone else; a little shy, bubbly, hellbent on proving his worth. Then he reduced an entire neighborhood to ash. His hair started turning white, he lost all color in his face, his eyes went from green-brown to an unsettling gold. Saying the wrong thing to him - no matter how friendly you had been trying to be - could set him off. He burned Sally once, when she bumped into him in the hallway and pissed him off.

 

EJ tries telling us that it’s not his fault. That he can’t control it. I was terrified, to be honest, because just how powerful is Aeron if he can burn a fucking _ghost_?

 

I sat by Slenderman’s office once, listening in on a conversation between him and EJ. Slenderman had suggested that Aeron learn to smother his power. Stop taking those iron supplements so his magic would go away. EJ had disagreed; said something about a burnout. And I’d gone back and relayed everything I’d heard to LJ and Ben.

 

We tried guessing what a burnout was. I figured it was when Aeron ran out of energy and collapsed like he so often did. LJ said something about him exploding. Ben guessed it could be something along the lines of spontaneous human combustion; when Aeron’s magic would consume him. Then we all betted on when it’d happen.

 

“Probably in a month,” I’d said. “Slenderdick’s sending him on some mission in Arkansas.”

 

LJ had shrugged. “We’ve seen him destroy forests just by getting a little irritated. I don’t really think there _is_ an end to it.”

 

Ben had said, “Probably tomorrow.” And that was the end of the conversation.

 

Ben was the closest to being right, because a week later, Aeron had a burnout.

 

I hadn’t been outside, but I’d heard the explosion. And the screaming. The whole yard was up in flames, and it was so hot that the fire was blue. I saw Aeron writhing on the ground, the grass around him charred so black that it looked like someone had spilled paint. His eyes, ears, and mouth were steaming. I could see black veins traveling up his arms, up his neck, across his face. There was too much ash on him to tell if his skin was charred or not. It smelled like ozone. There was so much static in the air, and then suddenly there was nothing. No oxygen, no heat.

 

It all came rushing back a moment later, and then Aeron had collapsed. He was gasping, arching off the burnt ground, shaking with panicked sobs. EJ and Natalie had dragged him inside, and he was so hot he left scorch marks behind him. I had stayed where I was on the bottom step, and as he passed me, I smelled ash and burnt rubber. Heard his skin sizzling.

 

EJ told me about it later on. That he’d ran the coldest bath possible and Aeron still made the water boil without barely touching it. That Aeron’s insides were so burnt he wasn’t sure if he was going to make it. That his blood was fire, and so were his breaths.

 

“He was burning alive from the inside,” he’d told me. EJ and Natalie had both been burned, too. Their entire arms were covered in welts for about a week, and Natalie’s hair had been singed off up to her shoulders.

 

No one saw Aeron for about a month. EJ told us that he only took a week to recover, but even after that, he was too weak to walk and couldn’t speak without coughing up blood. He said that even five days after the burnout, he was still trembling. Still sweating. Still hot to the touch.

 

As much as I didn’t like him - and I still don’t - I’d been rightfully pissed off. Especially when EJ told me that Aeron was in so much pain he couldn’t open his eyes.

 

I punched Slenderman in the face.

 

Would have kept hitting him, too, if those stupid fucking tendrils wouldn’t have stopped me. If EJ hadn’t dragged me out of his office while I screamed in a mixture of Spanish and English, words so vulgar that if my abuela were still alive, she’d deck me in the jaw.

 

EJ more or less tossed me onto the floor and started yelling. Asked me if I had a death wish.

 

“Yes,” I’d said, and I’d meant it.

 

That’s what led to EJ constantly asking me questions as if he’s some sort of therapist.

 

“How are you feeling?” He’s leaning against the kitchen counter. I’m making a plate of food for the rats that live in the greenhouse, since I’m tired of them eating all the tomatoes and they’re kind of adorable.

 

“Jeff,” he says, when he realizes I’m ignoring him.

 

I have to stop myself from slamming the knife I’m holding onto the counter. I take a deep breath, hoping that EJ doesn’t hear it, but I know he does because the bastard can probably hear worms in the ground. “I’m fine.”

 

“I’m inclined to believe you’re lying to me.”

 

“I’m about to be inclined to rip your throat out,” I say calmly, grabbing a box of unsweetened Cheerios that only Ben likes because he’s a fucking psychopath.

 

“Are you still feeling suicidal?” EJ asks. It’s like a knife to the chest hearing him say it so bluntly. I suddenly regret ever letting him know anything past my first and last name, because of _course_ EJ would be the one to constantly pressure me about stuff. I could tell LJ and he’d just shrug. Ben would roll his eyes and tell me to fuck off. But EJ? Jesus fucking Christ. He thinks he can _fix_ me or something. It’s weird as hell.

 

I consider making some story up about how I’ve found a girl and she’s finally made me happy, but even though EJ’s blind, he can always see right through my bullshit.

 

I settle with, “None of your business.”

 

EJ sighs. “It _is_ my business, especially after last month.”

 

Ah. Last month. Yeah, it makes sense EJ would be worried about my mental health after I showed up sobbing uncontrollably at his door at 3 in the morning with my wrists so bloody you couldn’t even see where the cuts were.

 

To be honest, I don’t even remember doing it. I wasn’t all there.

 

I roll my eyes. “I’m fine. If it settles your nerves any, I’m feeling more homicidal than suicidal.”

 

“Are your wrists healing?”

 

I flinch. I don’t want EJ knowing that I’d started cutting again. He’s going to go straight to Slenderman and my ass is gonna have to do ‘therapy’ lessons with him again. There’s nothing more stressful in this world than having fucking _Slenderman_ asking me if I’m sexually active.

 

“Yeah, they are,” I lie, resisting the urge to jerk my sleeves further down. EJ will sense the motion.

 

“And your burns?” he presses.

 

I bring the knife down so hard it sticks into the counter. “Don’t want to talk about it,” I say through gritted teeth. I don’t want to think about Aeron or his creepy-ass eyes.

 

EJ shifts. “I need to know. Would you rather have permanent burn marks?”

 

“I do everywhere anyways. What’s the difference?” I snap. “Maybe people will stop staring at my face and stare at my fucked up arms instead.”

 

“Jeff -”

 

“Stop trying to help me.” I toss the knife into the sink, grab the plastic plate, and walk past EJ.

 

The greenhouse is a few floors below Aeron’s room in the tower. I think it used to be a sunroom of sorts, but someone decided to make it into a greenhouse. It’s a pretty large space. It was empty until I found it about a year before Aeron moved in and started growing whatever I could. I also found a binder full of plant stuff, and since then I’ve acquired an unsettlingly vast knowledge of pine trees.

 

The rats jump up onto a table as I walk in. There are three of them - two are white and the third is brown. At first I decided against naming them, but after a while I started calling them Little Shit, Baboso, and Bastard Son respectively.

 

“Buenas tardes, my little shitheads,” I say brightly, patting Baboso on the head as he nibbles on my finger. “Te traje pan. No pele es, te tiraré a la basura.”

 

Little Shit grabs a chunk of banana and runs off.

 

I leave the rats to enjoy their food and walk around the greenhouse. It’s a really lousy attempt at calming down,  but I’d rather be surrounded by plants than a bunch of homicidal jackasses.

 

You’re _a homicidal jackass_ , a voice chides. I call it Common Sense.

 

“Hey, Jeff. I need to talk to you.” I jump and spin around, my first thought being that Common Sense has developed sentience and a body and has come to kick my ass, but it’s only Ben, looking guilty as fuck. I glance back at Bastard Son and Baboso, who don’t even spare a glance in my direction. Then I step aside so Ben doesn’t see them and clear my throat.

 

“About what?” I say nonchalantly, although it’s probably obvious that I’m internally panicking. I do _not_ want everyone listing my problems out to Slenderman. Though, that’s probably exactly what’s happened and Ben’s here to relay the details of my punishment.

 

Sure enough, it is. Ben leans against a support beam and sighs, and I prepare myself for the worst. “Slenderman told EJ to tell me to tell you that, in regards to your punishment for picking a fight with Aeron, you have to train at dawn tomorrow. And for the rest of the week.”

 

“That’s _it_?”

 

“You both have kitchen duty for a week,” he adds. “Slenderman wants you two to, uh . . . shit, what were the words? ‘Bond.’ He wants you to bond.”

 

I groan. “You could have waited to tell me this until I got out of my happy place.”

 

Ben shrugs. “It’s just what he said. Or, what he told EJ. What EJ told me. He had to go tell Aeron. Said it was safer if he did it.” Yeah, I guess that makes sense - Aeron ate a shitload of food last night, so his magic’s probably up and at it. EJ’s the only one who can calm him down.

 

“Maldición. Do you think I can change his mind?” I ask.

 

“Probably not. Slenderman would rip you apart for trying,” says Ben. He shrugs. “Slender says you’re gonna be training by yourselves. Together. In that clearing by the lake.”

 

“That is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

 

“Yeah, well, he seems to think it’s gonna work.” Ben shrugs again.

 

Slenderman’s a stupid bitch, yeah, that’s a given, but I can see what he’s trying to do. He loathes Aeron - naturally, of course, because Aeron’s a lot stronger than him and Slender _hates_ that. He can’t get rid of him himself. If Slenderman were to kick Aeron out of the house, the consequences would really stink, because Aeron would either get pissed off and burn the whole motherfucking forest down or he’d target Slenderman directly, and we all know he’d kick his ass.

 

 _But_ , if Aeron were to take his anger out on me instead - and it’s easier for him to do that since he’s been doing it for the past year now - then it would be easier for Slenderman to get rid of him in the event he accidentally kills me. Because it’d be a justifiable punishment.

 

As if reading my thoughts, Ben chuckles. “Are you already making up some conspiracy?”

 

“What? No,” I say defensively.

 

“Shane Dawson is quaking.”

 

“Oh, fuck off.”

  


* * *

 

 

EJ’s waiting for me when I get back to my room. In fact, he doesn’t say anything, and I don’t see him until I turn on the light and screech.

 

“Apologies,” he says, “I couldn’t find the light switch.”

 

“Goddamn. Give me a warning next time.” I shut the door and head over to the mirror. There are cobwebs all over my face and a jumping spider chilling on the back of my hand. I guess I was warm and he was comfortable.

 

“Sorry.” EJ shifts. “I -”

 

“Have something to tell me, don’t you?”

 

“Slenderman’s punishment,” he says. “It’s not as bad I thought it’d be.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“You and Jeff are to train every day before dawn for a week,” he says. “You know that clearing, down by the lake? There. By yourselves.” EJ hesitates. “Wait . . . Maybe it _is_ bad.”

 

I place the jumping spider on my dresser and shake my hand off, trying to get my magic to calm down. “Training for what?”

 

“I’m not sure. He didn’t specify.” EJ gets off the bed and walks towards me, his arm slightly out so he doesn’t smack into the dresser. “You also have kitchen duty for the entirety of the week.”

 

“Mhm.” Kitchen duty isn’t so bad. I’ll just give Jeff all the plates that have blood or bits of flesh on them. EJ will puke if he eats anything that isn’t raw meat, and some girl named Tristan has a habit of mixing her food and thoroughly disgusting everyone else. 

 

“Are you trying to calm yourself down?” EJ asks quietly. He places a hand on my arm.

 

“No, not really,” I mumble. “I’m fine with it.”

 

“You are?” EJ sounds surprised.

 

“Yeah.” I force myself to smile, even though EJ can’t see it. “Yeah, I’m good. Gives me something to do. When do we start?”

 

“Tomorrow morning.”

 

EJ opens his mouth as if to say something, and then nods and begins walking out of my room. I sigh and run a hand through my hair, collecting cobwebs between my fingers.

 

EJ stops by the doorway and calls over his shoulder, “Go easy on him. Don’t touch his wrists.” And with that, he leaves.

 

I frowned. I’m pretty sure I burned his upper arms.

  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two gays being gay near a lake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoilers for the throne of glass series yeet

Waking up at the asscrack of dawn isn’t . . . isn’t as easy as I thought it’d be. 

 

It takes me  _ fifteen minutes  _ to even gather the strength to pull myself out of bed and stumble over towards the dresser. I’m not completely sure what I manage to put on. I grab my bag, slip on my boots, and head to the living room. 

 

I haven’t spoken to Jeff since the day before yesterday. Hopefully he didn’t go down there without me. 

 

Actually, that’s probably exactly what he did. Jackass. 

 

Ben’s already awake and sitting in the living room eating a bowl of rice with a deadpan expression on his face, staring off into the distance. I wave at him as I enter. 

 

“Good morning, Zelda,” I say. 

 

“Fuck you. Also, rice.” Ben points towards a bowl of rice with a paper towel sitting on top of it. I gladly take the bowl and toss the paper towel into the trash. “Have you seen the meme wall?” Ben asks around a mouthful of rice. 

 

“The what now?” 

 

“LJ and I started a meme wall.” Ben points with his fork. I follow his gaze to where there are several printed-out pictures of . . . shit I don’t understand taped crudely onto the wall. I haven’t been active on the Internet since . . . God. It’s been a while. 

 

“I don’t get them.” I squint and take a bite of rice. 

 

“That’s because you’re old,” Ben chimes. 

 

“You’re older than me,” I protest. 

 

“I’m sixteen. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he singsongs. 

 

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, you’ve been sixteen for about seven years now. That makes you twenty-three.” 

 

“Nah.” 

 

“Whatever.” I finish my rice while examining the meme wall. “Why are there so many pictures of Pewdiepie?” 

 

“War,” Ben says with a dark expression. 

 

“Okay.” I’m not going to question it. 

 

“Morning!” comes a cheerful voice. Toby bounds into the room, takes one look at the meme wall, and deflates a little. 

 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Ben croons, swirling around in his chair to face Toby. “It’s my Mona Lisa. My magnum opus.” 

 

Toby just sighs in disappointment. 

 

I force a smile. “Anyone seen Miss Sunshine?” 

 

“He already left to go down to the lake,” says Ben. “Didn’t even eat his goddamn rice.” 

 

“That’s because your rice is horrible,” says Toby. 

 

“No it isn’t!” 

 

I roll my eyes and leave as Ben and Toby start arguing over proper methods of cooking rice, making sure to slam the screen door behind me. The yard is still damp from the early morning dew, and I’m glad I wore my boots, because wet grass is my absolute number-one enemy. 

 

Of course Slenderman would pick this time of day, where everything’s slightly damp. 

 

It’s about twenty or so yards down to the lake. There’s a small clearing beside it that used to be a picnic area or something, but it’s now just used for training. Actually, it’s not even used for  _ that  _ anymore, because no one wants to train so close to the lake (especially Ben), and it’s just . . . ugly now. All the grass has been destroyed, some of the trees are burned or broken, and it’s hard to find a plant other than some ugly type of mushroom. But it’s far from the mansion. It gives some privacy.

 

The gate on the path down to the clearing is already open, and as I navigate my way through the thick foliage, I see Jeff already down there, sitting cross-legged on a boulder. He’s wearing all black. Smart, I guess. 

 

“Hey,” I say, sliding over a huge tree root, “what’s the Spanish word for tortilla?” 

 

Jeff doesn’t bother looking at me as I stumble into the clearing. “I’m not going to answer that.” 

 

“Ben said you refused to eat,” I say, “and you’re going to need the energy for when I kick your ass.” I toss him a tupperware bowl full of rice. Jeff catches it with no problem and pops the lid open. 

 

“He doesn’t make it right,” he says. 

 

“Is there a certain way to make rice?” It didn’t taste  _ too  _ bad. 

 

Jeff ignores me and starts eating. I’ve always noticed his weird tendency to eat in  _ really  _ small bites. He always tears his food apart, too. At this rate he’s going to be eating that rice for three hours.

 

I toss my bag onto the ground and sit on a rock overlooking the lake. The sun is just now starting to come up. I lean against the tree beside the rock and sigh. “Lake’s pretty in the morning.” 

 

“Mhm.” 

 

“How often do you come here?” I ask him. 

 

Jeff raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t answer my question. 

 

I try thinking of something else to say. EJ said to be nice. Take it easy on him. Don’t touch his wrists. Whatever that means. Maybe I burned him worse than I thought. “Sorry about burning you.” 

 

“Mm.” 

 

“I’m trying to be friendly.” 

 

He tosses his spoon into the dirt and sets the tupperware bowl aside. There’s an awkward moment of silence where I wonder if I’ve pissed him off or something. Then he says, “Ben’s rice is shit.” 

 

“I . . . didn’t think it tasted too bad.” 

 

“That’s because you’re white,” he says, hopping off his rock. I watch as he stands at the very edge of the lake and starts putting his hair into a bun. “What do you want to do?” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Slenderdick said we’re supposed to train, but he didn’t specify how,” says Jeff. 

 

I shrug. 

 

He sighs and pulls something out of the ground. A hunting knife. 

 

“Wait,” I say nervously, jumping off my rock, “we’re not - no knives.” 

 

“Slenderman didn’t say that,” Jeff chides, his eyes twinkling. Bastard. “Besides, I’m not going to stab you.” 

 

“I’m not doing anything with you that involves a knife,” I say steadily, shooting him a glare. I hope it’s somewhat intimidating. “Or any weapon.” 

 

“ _ You’re  _ a weapon,” Jeff shoots back. 

 

“Yeah, well - that thing can kill me.” I point towards his knife.

 

“And suddenly I’m immune to fire?” 

 

“Alright, you smart-ass.” 

 

Jeff twirls the knife through the air and looks me over. “You’re short and thin. Not much going for you there, buddy. If you’re approaching a burnout and have to resort to traditional weapons, you’re royally fucked.” 

 

I scowl.

 

“Tell me I’m right.” 

 

“I’m not giving you that satisfaction,” I say darkly. 

 

Jeff tilts his head. “Come on. Try and at least knock me off my feet.” 

 

“Can I use magic?” 

 

“Absolutely fucking not.” 

 

I groan and position myself to run towards him. He’s all the way across the clearing. He’ll see any move I have, so when I start running, I feign left and try to elbow the right side of his ribs. He sees it coming and easily kicks the back of my knees. 

 

A small ring of smoke poofs out from underneath me as I hit the ground. 

 

“Shit, you’re bad,” Jeff snickers.

 

“Shut up,” I groan, staggering to my feet. My arms are covered in wet dirt and soot. And the goddamned wet grass. “What the fuck, are you a black belt or something?” 

 

“Your hand-to-hand combat is self-taught, right?” says Jeff, completely ignoring my question. “There are parts of it that clunk - you take too much time to think and don’t rely at all on your instincts. Also, when you feign a move, you can see it coming.” 

 

I pick grass bits off of my arms and scowl at him. “I’m not self-taught. My father used to give me self-defense lessons.” 

 

“Well, either your father’s methods are fucking terrible or you’ve gotten rusty,” he chimes. “And self-defense isn’t going to do you much good when you’re supposed to be on the offensive.” 

 

“Why can’t I just use my magic?” 

 

“Because I fucking said so.” 

 

“I’m going to kick your balls all the way into your kidneys,” I snap. 

 

Jeff plows into me a second later. I hardly manage to get my footing and block a punch to my chest before he kicks the back of my knees and I fold like a fucking lawn chair. 

 

“Oh my  _ God _ ,” I groan. 

 

“Get up.” Jeff kicks my ankle. 

 

When I’m back onto my feet, he leans against the boulder and looks me over. “Stop thinking.” 

 

“What?” I wheeze. 

 

“Stop  _ thinking _ . You’re thinking too much,” he says. 

 

“Look,  _ not thinking _ is a special talent,” I say tiredly. “You’re so used to hardly thinking at all that it’s easy for you.” 

 

Jeff decides not to acknowledge the insult. “You have to predict moves, but if you think too much about what I’m going to do, then you’re going to hesitate. In a fight against someone less experienced, that might not matter, but against someone like me,” he pokes his chest for emphasis, “they’re going to exploit that hesitation in any way they can. And then you’re dead and it’s sad and oh no.” 

 

I sigh. “Okay, so I have to stop thinking. Great.” 

 

“And you can’t?” 

 

“No, I fucking cannot.” 

 

Jeff rubs his chin. “Okay. Gotta work on that.” 

 

I roll my eyes. “What, do I meditate?” 

 

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Get on that boulder.” 

 

“ _ What? _ I’m not a fucking monk, I don’t need to -” 

 

“Onto the boulder.” Jeff grabs my elbows and starts pushing me towards the boulder overlooking the lake. “You’re gonna become the Buddha and then I can continue kicking your ass.” 

 

“This is some hippy vegan shit that I will have no part of, so leave me alone,” I growl. Jeff shoves me towards the rock and jerks his knife out of the ground. “I don’t want to meditate. The second I close my eyes, you’re gonna bolt and leave me sitting here like an idiot.” 

 

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Fine, then, I’ll do it with you.” 

 

I snort. The thought of Jeff meditating is fucking wild. 

 

But, true to his word (which is rare for the bastard), Jeff hops up onto the boulder next to me and sits with his legs hanging off the edge over the lake. He watches as I clamber up onto the rock and sit down on the other side, as far away from him as I can get without falling into the water. 

 

“I’ve never meditated before,” I admit. 

 

“Me neither,” is his half-hearted response. 

 

I lean against the tree and stare out over the water. The sun’s up now. The quietness that was present in the forest earlier is broken by the distant singing of birds. The woodpecker that’s been irritating me for the past two weeks is up and at it. We’re far from my half of the mansion, so it’s drowned out by other forest noises. I still have to focus past it. Goddamn bird. 

 

Jeff’s already lying on his back, and the only indicator that he’s awake is him casually playing with his knife. 

 

“So,” I say slowly, “how long do we do this?” 

 

“However long you want to.” He doesn’t open his eyes. 

 

I’m instantly tempted to get up and leave, but I guess that’d be pretty hypocritical of me, so I stay put and look back over the lake. It looks a lot like Callahan’s Lake, the one that my parents and I used to go to whenever I was out of school. I remember the time I fell off the side of our boat and nearly drowned and shudder. 

 

“I’m afraid of water,” I announce. 

 

Jeff slowly opens his eyes and looks over at me. His hair has fallen halfway out of the bun and is sprawled out on the rock around his head. “Okay?” 

 

“I also can’t swim,” I add. 

 

“Okay.” 

 

“Just . . . so you know.” I motion towards the lake. “And before you decide to toss me in there.” 

 

Jeff nods and closes his eyes again. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

 

This is awkward. 

 

I clear my throat; “So, do I like -” 

 

“Oh my God just close your fucking eyes.” 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Ben and LJ are having a heated argument when Jeff and I return to the mansion. 

 

“Fruit belongs on pizza as much as pickles belong on ice cream,” LJ is saying. Jeff and I throw each other a look.

 

“Yes, but here’s the thing - you admitted you’ve only had  _ warm  _ pineapple pizza. Pineapple slices can’t be eaten warm, it’s just not right,” says Ben, gesticulating with hands in hopes of emphasizing his point but in reality just looking desperate. “ _ Cold  _ pineapples slices on pizza is the shit.” 

 

Jeff quirks a brow. “You’re debating fruit on pizza?” 

 

Ben twirls around on his heel and throws his arms out to Jeff. “ _ Please _ , tell him that pineapple pizza isn’t bad.” 

 

“I’m not getting involved.” And, with that, he leaves the room with some Spanish phrase that’s most likely an insult. 

 

Ben turns to me next. “Aeron - what’s your opinion on pineapple pizza?” Behind him, LJ glares at me and runs a finger across his neck. 

 

“Nothing to say about that,” I say. “That’s just wrong.” 

 

“It’s  _ good _ !” Ben shouts as I walk past him. 

 

“No, it’s not!” LJ argues. 

 

Strangely, the halls are silent. Jeff’s probably already disappeared to his room, and most of the others aren’t up and at it until 12. It gives me some time to walk around aimlessly before finding myself in the new library, standing in front of the section full of young adult books. I have no idea where Slenderman gets them. I can’t imagine him punching  credit card information into Amazon. 

 

I put my hands in my pockets and glance over the titles - Throne of Glass, Harry Potter, and some others. All series that I read as a kid and subsequently forgot about. It’d be nice to read them again - Harry Potter has a new book-play-thing out that I have yet to read, and I stopped Throne of Glass halfway through. 

 

As I’m sliding the books from their places (and, judging by the amount of dust, no one has ever read them), I hear light footsteps behind me and glance over my shoulder. Upon recognizing the head of messy washed-out green hair and the millions of freckles, I groan. 

 

Tristan leans against the bookshelf and flashes me a sharp-toothed grin. “Hey there, Firecracker. Didn’t know you’re into the, uh, cringy fantasy junk.”

 

“What do I look like I’m into?” I ask calmly. 

 

Tristan thinks for a moment, and then her face lights up with a wicked grin. “Hardcore porn, probably. The good gay shit.” I nearly choke on my spit. 

 

“Is Throne of Glass cringy?” I ask. 

 

“Have you read it?” 

 

“A long time ago. When it first came out.” I hold up the book. “Figured I should waste my time by finishing it.” 

 

Tristan nods. “Nehemia dies.” 

 

“I know.” 

 

“Dammit.” 

 

After a moment of staring, Tristan groans. “Yeah, okay, it’s a little cringy. Main character chick is bitchy. Got some hot elfy people, though.” 

 

“I recall that much.” 

 

Tristan suddenly brightens and jumps so violently that she knocks a book off the shelf. “Shit! Fuck! I remember why I’m here now. Slenderman wanted to see you this evening. He was gonna tell EJ, but he thinks that you should get to know the others, since you’re a bitchy recluse. Not my words. His. Paraphrased. Biased.” Tristan makes a face. 

 

I blink. “I’m not reclusive.” 

 

“A hermit, then.” 

 

“I’m not a hermit.” 

 

Tristan rolls her eyes. “Whatever helps you masturbate at night.” 

 

“I don’t -” 

 

“Later, boner!” 

 

And she bounds off. 

 

I glance down at the cover of Throne of Glass. “I’m not a hermit,” I say, to no one in particular, before heading off to the hidden library to lock myself up for the rest of the evening. You know, like a hermit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aeron does an explore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know jack shit about french architecture

Slenderman’s office scares me. 

 

For good reason, too. He keeps it dark all the time, and it’s  _ cold _ , and there are spiders everywhere. Slenderman doesn’t really give a shit about technology, and the grossness of insects and mold doesn’t bother him. I guess for a centuries-old cryptic being, it wouldn’t. But it’s still nasty as hell. 

 

He has a giant desk and an even bigger chair (actually, I think of it more like a throne), and in front of that, too far from the door for an easy escape, are two unnecessarily luxuriant velvet armchairs. As I walk into the office, I notice that the chairs are similar in design to the couches in the old library. 

 

Actually, the more I look around at the old-styled architecture of the office matches that of the library - and the abandoned wing entirely - perfectly. But why would a section of the old building be in the newer part? 

 

Slenderman is sitting at the massive mahogany desk, as always, arms crossed patiently in front of him. He makes no noise as I quietly shut the door behind me and sit down in one of the uncomfortably soft armchairs. 

 

_ Hello, child.  _

 

His voice makes me feel nauseous; a scratching in the back of my mind, and then an echoey voice that seems to bounce around my skull. I grip the sides of the armchair and force a smile. 

 

“You needed me?” I try a friendly approach. Getting on Slenderman’s bad side and having his shitty passive-aggressiveness piss me off before dinner isn’t a good idea. I have to take more precautiouns than anyone else to keep an amicable relationship with him, because unlike the others, Slenderman doesn’t give a single fuck about me. The only reason he hasn’t kicked me out or killed me yet is because no one knows how dangerous I am, and it’s not a risk anyone is willing to take. Not since Abernathy. 

 

_ I would like your thoughts on your morning training with Jeffrey _ . 

 

My magic flares up for a second and I shift in the seat so Slenderman won’t notice. There’s a little plume of smoke that rises up, and I pray he can’t sense it. I don’t know how Slenderman’s sense of sight and smell works, but I do know that they are more acute than EJ’s. 

 

“Uh, well,” I start slowly, “I don’t . . . Get along with him well, but this morning was . . . Friendly enough. We didn’t try to kill each other.” 

 

Slenderman leans back in the seat. 

 

_ Good. _

 

“How long do we have to do this, exactly?” I ask warily. 

 

Slenderman’s silent for a moment, and I begin worrying that I’ve angered him. 

 

_ A week. _

 

And that’s the end of the conversation. 

 

Timothy is waiting outside the door as I exit the office, wearing that weird mask of his. I’ve only seen him without it once or twice, but after that oddly empty look he always has in his eyes, I’d rather him wear it. 

 

I hurry past Tim. He doesn’t acknowledge me. 

 

The dinner room is as full as it always is. I smell the food before I walk into the room, and instinctively I check to see who’s here. Jack, Ben, EJ. Zero and Puppet are present, doing weird romantic couple stuff in the back. Sadie and Natalie are having a heated but friendly debate over something small while Toby watches disinterestedly. I don’t see Jeff anywhere. Not a surprise. 

 

I walk back out of the room before anyone sees me and head down the hallway. I’d never really paid much attention to the architecture of the building before. 

 

It’s modern, I guess. If you went to the Biltmore house, that’s probably what it looks like. Half of the walls are paneled and the other half is plain white. Not at all like the detailed designs of the old part of the mansion. 

 

I take a few turns in the hallway and come towards the eastern wing. It’s nothing but bedrooms and a couple of towel closets. The doors to people’s rooms are often painted in whatever style helps them identify their room the fastest. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that. 

 

Tristan’s door is completely black, save for the odd splatters of white paint and the single skull in the center. 

 

She opens it as soon as I knock, and her sharp grin widens as she sees me. “How’s the book?” 

 

I sigh. “Haven’t gotten around to reading it yet. Uh, I need to ask a favor of you.” 

 

“Mhm.” Tristan taps on her teeth with one of her unsettlingly sharp nails. 

 

“Do you have a camera?” 

 

Tristan seems a bit put off by the question, and it’s probably the first time I’ve ever seen her genuinely confused. But it only lasts for a second before she wipes the emotion off her face and says, “What? Are you making a sex tape or somethin’?” 

 

“I need it for, uh . . .” Shit. I didn’t think this part through. “I really like the lake and wanted to, you know.” 

 

“Mm. Fine, keep your secrets,” she grumbles. “I’ve got a Polaroid. None of that fancy, expensive digital shite, though, so if that’s what you’re lookin’ for, you’re gonna be disappointed. Come on in.” 

 

I’m not sure what I’m expecting her room to look like - black walls, maybe some piles of bones, knives, blood splatters. 

 

Tristan’s room is . . . Normal. It’s a lot neater than I’d expect from her, to be honest. The only bones are from animals, and it looks like they’ve been cleaned and bleached from where they sit on a shelf. A deer skull, a jawbone, and some others I don’t recognize. 

 

I watch as Tristan rummages through a desk drawer and then produces a small white Polaroid camera and two packages of unused film. She thrusts it all into my hands and smiles. “There ya go. Now have fun takin’ pictures of your dick.” 

 

“That’s not what I do,” I say hotly. 

 

“Mhm. Sure thing, champ.” Tristan pushes me out of her room and leans against the frame, one hand on the doorknob. “You know what to do when you’re fixin’ those pictures? Don’t touch ‘em.” 

 

“I know how Polaroid works,” I lie. 

 

Tristan doesn’t look convinced. 

 

I eventually manage to convince her that I’m not using her camera for porn-related purposes and head down in the direction of the old half of the mansion. 

 

I’ve mapped the place - and I’m certain there’s no way to actually  _ get  _ to the abandoned wing without going through the old courtyard. It must have been blocked off or built over. 

 

_ Built over.  _ That thought gives me an idea. 

 

I put the film into the camera as I’m walking towards the small hallway with the entrance to the attic. No one ever comes down here because of the maze of empty rooms and dust. I remember there being boxes stacked along the walls - and, as I go behind the attic stairs and find a small doorway, I see them in their usual place. 

 

The room is small. It has an interesting architectural style; there’s an old marble fireplace that doesn’t seem to have been used in decades, the windows are boarded up, and the stone tile floors are cracked and faded. A dandelion is growing out from beneath the tiles in the corner, where a single beam of sunlight hits the ground during the day. It’s dark now. 

 

I step over shards of glass from the fallen chandelier that lays near the doorway and fish around my pockets for the small flashlight I bring with me everywhere. Once I have light, I take in more detail of the room. 

 

There’s copper cookware sitting around, and a couple of old gilt frames are leaning against the wall. I see where what could have been a cooking spit once stood. 

 

It must have been a kitchen. Or part of a kitchen. 

 

I angle my flashlight, stand near the window, and take a picture. 

 

When I have a couple of pictures, I grab my flashlight and move to the other end of the room where there’s a short doorway that I have to crouch to get through. It leads to a wide, completely unlit hallway. 

 

“Oh, shit,” I whisper, reaching out to brush my fingers against the wall. I aim my flashlight towards the darkness. The light swallows up the shadows and illuminated the marble-floored hallway. There are three other doors that I can see, dark blue and decorated with gilded ornamentation. There are tapestries of the same color hanging from the other side of the hallway. The print is too faded for me to make out what it used to depict. 

 

It’s so cold in the room that I can see my breath billowing in front of me. The only noises other than my breathing are the faint dripping of water and my footsteps echoing off the cold floor. 

 

My flashlight flickers once, twice, and then completely goes out. I’m left standing in the darkness. 

 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” I hiss, slapping the flashlight against my hand. Nothing. 

 

My chest tightens, and I consider pulling a tiny ball of fire into the palm of my hand for light, but with how jumpy I am, I’m more afraid of catching the place on fire. So I breathe into my hands for warmth, place one back against the wall, and continue walking. 

 

I make it to the first door and feel around for a handle. My fingers follow the design path - leaves, maybe, or just intricate pattern of swirls and dots. I can barely see the gold glittering through the darkness. 

 

My hand brushes against what feels like a knocker. I push as hard as I can, and with a loud groan and a rain of dust, the door swings open. 

 

The room on the other side of the door is so dark that I can’t see anything. 

 

I place my flashlight on the ground by the doorway and begin walking into the room, my hands out in front of me so I don’t hit something. There’s a soft breeze of cold air coming from deeper in the room, so I brace my hand against the wall and begin walking towards it. 

 

I wish the Polaroid had a flash.

 

It’s completely dark now, and it seems to get colder the further I go into the room; so cold, in fact, that after a moment of consideration, I channel some energy beneath my skin for warmth. 

 

My fingers hit something sharp, and when I go to feel around more, something falls off the wall and hits the ground with a loud clang. 

 

“Shit.” I bend down and feel around for whatever fell. It’s heavy, and feels like it’s made of metal and leather of some sorts. There are buttons, or buckles, or something, and it’s cold. 

 

I back against the wall, lay the object on the floor, and tentatively summon a flame in the palm of my hand. 

 

It’s a sword. 

 

The handle is wrapped in black leather and the scabbard is decorated with iron designs that look similar to the French-styled patterns on the wall. I brace my foot against the tip of the scabbard and pull the sword out of its sheath. 

 

The blade is black, and as soon as I pull the whole thing out of the sheath, a thick, murky fog spills out of it. My magic flickers out when I shout and drop the sword. 

 

The mist gathers on the floor and then collects near the sword again. It stays there. 

 

I resume my fire and inch closer to the sword. The mist seems to hang by the blade, and I notice strange runes carved into the dark metal. 

 

I take another step, and the runes begin glowing. 

 

It’s faint, so much so that I hardly notice until I reach to pick the sword up. The runes illuminate the wall with a blast of red-hued light. The encrusted jewels - all in the red and black color scheme - along the hilt of the blade glow as well, but not as bright as the runes. They look similar to the ones I saw in the books in the library. 

 

The weight of the sword seems to disappear as the runes glow brighter. I lift the sword up so I can see the rest of the room. 

 

There are assortments of weapons hanging on the walls - all of them ornate and appearing to be more ceremonial than practical in battle. None of them look anything quite like the sword. 

 

I quickly sheath the sword again, and both the light and mist are extinguished. I’m left with only the weak light of my fire to navigate back. 

 

I move along the wall again, increasing the size of my fire for more light, and eventually make my way back to the hallway. 

 

I almost turn to go back to the room with the boxes when I see a sliver of moonlight further down the hall. 

 

Immediately I begin walking towards it. The light takes me to a sharp corner that leads into a larger vestibule-like room. There’s a hallway that leads off of that with a long window overlooking the old courtyard. 

 

So this is how you get into the old wing. Now it makes sense that this part was built over. 

 

I cautiously step towards the glass, aim my foot towards the edge, and being the sharpest part of my boot on it as hard as I can. The whole window shatters. 

 

I crawl through the window and find myself in the courtyard, surrounded by dead grass, an ancient willow, and a destroyed fountain. I see the window that leads to the abandoned library across the yard, and a few more overhangs with doors underneath them. 

 

My tower is in sight from here - it actually appears to be built on top of the building that connects to the old library. I start walking towards it. 

 

I push the sword through the hole, and then crawl through the small space underneath the window. It takes me to the familiar room with the flying buttresses, rose windows, and gold-trimmed clerestories. In the center of the room are two massive curved wooden staircases with velvet carpet and golden risers. 

 

I run up the stairs with the sword clanking along the ground behind me. I take the familiar left into a stone hallway, lit only by the few windows near the ceiling. There are only two doors; one directly across from the entrance, and a smaller one to the side. I’ve never been able to get the small one open. 

 

The library is as I left it; a little dusty and full of books. 

 

I shut the door behind me and head over to the table, where I pick the sword up with ease and place it on the surface. I cautiously run my fingers over the small engravings on the sheath before undoing the two buckles keeping it in place. 

 

When I pull the blade out, the mist returns, spilling over the edges of the sheath and onto the floor. I wave my hand through the mist, and my fingers come back slightly blackened. Ash. 

 

The runes on the blade begin glowing red again. I take a few steps back, and the glowing from the runes dims down. It brightens as I walk closer. It’s reacting to me. 

 

I turn my gaze over to the mist, which is now traveling across the floor, leaving a small trail of ash behind it. It breezes around the chest full of gold and jewels that I’d never paid much attention to, and a small tendril of black snakes up and curls around the strange golden crown. I notice that the crystal is similar to the ones embedded in the sheath of the sword. 

 

When I walk over and pick the crown up, the mist hangs on and curls around my arm, leaving a smear of ash along my skin. I turn the crown over in my hands, and then turn back to the sword. The shape of the crown is kind of similar to the runes on the weapon. Maybe it belonged to the same person. 

 

“Cool,” I say out loud. 

 

I stay in the library for a few more hours, experimenting with the sword and the strange mist that seems to have a life of its own. When it’s around three in the morning, considering I set the time right on the giant grandfather clock, I put the sword next to the chest and leave the library. 

 

I take the usual path instead of going through the dark hallway on the other side of the courtyard. After about fifteen minutes of weaving through ruined hallways and stairs, I end up in the hall that no one’s ever in. 

 

The living room is dark and quiet. I glance up at the clock and see that it’s 3:23 in the morning. 

 

I quickly head to my room, which is another five minute walk. Once I get to the tower, I run up the stairs and slam my door shut behind me. 

 

A groan escapes me as I collapse on my bed with a plume of smoke wisping out from underneath me. I cautiously place Tristan’s Polaroid camera on the ground by my feet and dig the pictures I took out of my pockets. I look over the picture of the sword. The mist can barely be seen in the corner of the image. I flip through a few more of the pictures I took; the courtyard, the massive room with the curved staircase, the library. 

 

I toss the pictures onto the floor and roll over in bed. Slenderman must want that section of the old building to be secret for a reason. 

 

So, obviously, I’m going to find out why. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIRTEEN PAGES OF SHIT HITTING THE FAN

Vermillion light is streaming through the cracks in my curtains by the time I wake up. It takes me a moment to realize that the sun’s already up, and Jeff’s probably irritated, waiting for me at the training yard by the lake.

 

I groan and lift my head from the covers. There’s a thick layer of ash underneath my eyes, and an outline from where I was sprawled out on the blankets. I had a nightmare - or something close enough to one. Bad memories of my biological father and that stupid trailer where he lived.

 

I pull myself out of bed and wipe the ash from my face.

 

A quick shower is enough to rid myself of any remaining ash. I dress in all black again, and put on my pair of combat boots. I pick Tristan’s Polaroid camera off the ground and gently place it on my dresser before heading out into the hall. It’s quiet in the halls and in the living room.

 

When I go out onto the porch, LJ and Tristan are doing early-morning training in the yard. Toby is sitting on the top step of the porch. I don’t see Jeff anywhere, so I decide to sit down next to him and watch the two fighting in the yard. It looks like Tristan is kicking LJ’s ass.

 

“Good morning,” Toby says sleepily.

 

“Morning,” I say, trying to add some cheer to my voice. “Is Jeff out?”

 

“Yeah, I think he went down to the lake already,” Toby says. I notice his arm jerking.

 

I turn my gaze to the yard when LJ hits the dirt and Tristan screams something incomprehensible. It’s probably an insult. I hope she doesn’t get too pissed off at me for not returning her camera. Last time she got really mad at someone, she ripped a chunk of their throat out and then spit it back in their face.

 

Tristan notices I’m out and grins, her iron fangs glinting in the sunlight. “Mornin’! Jeff went down to the lake with two cups an’ he looked like he was tired as all hell, so you might wanna get down there before he falls asleep n’ topples into the lake.”

 

LJ rolls his eyes. “Jeff can swim.”

 

“Not this early, he can’t,” Tristan tells him over her shoulder.

 

Toby jerks again and mutters something under his breath. “M-Mi-Might, uh, might w-wanna go before he gets pissed off.”

 

I groan. “He’s pissed off from the moment he opens his eyes in the morning.”

 

LJ snickers. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

 

“Can’t I just train with you guys?”

 

Tristan quirks a brow. “D’you want Slenderman to resize your asshole?”

 

“Good point. Down to the lake I go.” I stand up and quickly jump the final three steps.

 

The forest is a lot more lively than the last time I came down here. The woodpecker near my end of the mansion is back at it again, fifteen times louder this morning than usual. I stop on top of the slope that leads down to the lake and glance back at the mansion. The old part can’t be seen from this angle. None of it can - from the front, at least. Maybe it’s intended to be that way.

 

As I navigate around the thick bushes and protruding roots, I think about the sword that I’d left back in the library. It wasn’t locked up or anything, so it can’t be necessarily _bad_. It’d odd that the sword, and so many other interesting weapons, were just left behind. Most of the other weapons were purely ornamental. Maybe whoever abandoned the old mansion thought that the sword was decorative, too.

 

I see Jeff down by the lake already, leaning against one of the rocks, looking out over the water.

 

He looks over at me as I slide down into the clearing, sending a shower of rocks onto the sand. I’m about to greet him, but I notice the look on his face. He’s pissed.

 

I bring warmth into my hands and take a weary step back. Jeff doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does, he doesn’t bother commenting on it. “Thanks for your help last night,” he spits.

 

Oh.

 

Shit.

 

Kitchen duty.

 

“I, uh -” Ohhhh holy _shit_ how did I forget about that?! “I-I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “I completely forgot about that. I can -”

 

“You’re doing all of it tonight,” he growls at me. “You’re lucky EJ was willing to help me, otherwise I would have shredded your ass.”

 

“I didn’t mean to forget,” I try.

 

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t.” Is that sarcasm? I think he’s being sarcastic. “But you did, and now you’re washing everything tonight.”

 

“That’s fair,” I say defeatedly.

 

“Qué burro,” Jeff grumbles, tossing his knife onto the ground. “Your hands are on fire.”

 

I look down at my hands which are, in fact, on fire.

 

“ _Shit_!” I hastily pat my hands down on my jeans while Jeff watches with his arms crossed. I look up to glare at him and catch him quickly wiping a smile off his face.

 

Once my hands are no longer on fire, the two of us stare at each other for an unreasonably long amount of time until Jeff steps back. “Are you gonna keep standing there?”

 

“N-No,” I stammer, jumping off the last root that leads into the clearing.

 

Jeff is watching me intently. It’s unsettling. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

 

“Yeah,” I say defensively.

 

“The tone of your voice makes me think you’re a liar,” he says, leaning back against the rock that overlooks the lake. I warily eye the knife lying on the ground. Jeff notices. “I’m not going to stab you for skipping out on the dishes.”

 

I pick the knife up and stab it into a tree, far from Jeff’s reach. “But you’d like to.”

 

Jeff quirks a brow. “Mhm. You work on becoming the Buddha?”

 

I think back to the little meditation practice we’d had yesterday, and then to the soreness of my muscles from a night of running around the mansion. I cringe. “Uh, no.”

 

He shrugs. “Figured that wouldn’t work.”

 

“Well, you’re the one insistent on me becoming a damn monk,” I shoot back.

 

“Not really. I just needed time to think of something.” Jeff hops off the rock and stands in front of the lake. “We’re gonna keep doing self-defense until you can prove to me that you won’t burn my eyebrows off if you use your magic.”

 

“I won’t -”

 

“That’s an empty promise,” Jeff cuts in sharply.

 

“I never promised anything!”

 

“You were going to.”

 

Yeah, he’s right about that. But I refuse to stop arguing. “I can’t prove anything to you if you don’t let me try!”

 

Jeff’s eyes narrow. “Fine, then. Come here.”

 

I clench my fists. “No.”

 

“Why not?” he muses, crossing his arms again. “I thought you were gonna prove to me that you could use your magic.”

 

I try not to glance at the lake. Keeping eye contact with Jeff is hard. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

 

“You seemed to have a very different opinion about thirty seconds ago.” Jeff notices me glancing towards the lake and grins. “Oh, that’s right.”

 

When he takes a step towards me, my hands immediately catch on fire. I can feel ashes falling onto my cheeks. “Don’t you fucking dare,” I growl at him.

 

“Don’t what?” Jeff teases. He takes another step forwards, and I jerk the knife out of the tree and hold it in front of me. The flames around my hands heat up the blade. Jeff stops.

 

“I’ll burn you again,” I warn him.

 

Jeff’s grin widens. “Go on, then.”

 

I hesitate, and that’s enough for him to quickly close the space between us, grab the knife from my hand, and slam me against a tree. I hear him hiss in pain, and the knife is discarded several feet away. Jeff’s eyes are dark and his face eerily calm.

 

“You’ve been nothing but an inconvenience since you got here,” he says gently, but the words still cut. “I don’t care how traumatized you are from your shitty background. That gives you no excuse to treat everyone else like a piece of shit.”

 

I grab at the arm around my throat, but Jeff doesn’t budge.

 

“Slenderman’s only keeping you here so you can become his pet,” Jeff continues. “It’d be better for you, and everyone else, if you left. You have no interest in learning anything. You’re irrational. You’re bitter from your past, but you refuse help. It’s not going to get you anywhere.”

 

I growl, fighting to speak over the fingers closed tightly around my neck. “You don’t have any fucking idea -”

 

“You’re not the only one with a shit past, alright?” Jeff’s voice raises to a half-shout. “Stop acting like you’re special because your dad hit you a few times!”

 

“My dad _never_ -”

 

“ _Leave_.” His voice is solid, and cuts right through any argument I might have been able to spit out. “You’re not wanted here.”

 

With that, he lets go of my neck and I collapse to my knees gasping for air. Jeff grabs his knife off the ground, glances at me over his shoulder, and disappears through the brush.

 

As soon as he’s out of sight, the realization of what he said hits me like a brick. I bend over and vomit, and it burns like hell coming up. The ground around me is scorched and sizzling. I don’t know if I burned him or not, but if I did, Slenderman’s going to obliterate me.

 

I wipe my mouth off, scrub the ash from my face (to no avail, because it keeps falling), and stagger to my feet, bracing my hand on the tree trunk. It leaves a sweltering mark behind.

 

Once I can breathe without choking, I stagger over to the still-damp foliage up the short hill, away from the mansion, and collapse. There’s a few hissing noises, but once the coldness of the leaves cool my skin, I feel the pressure in my chest slowly receding. The ash stops falling from my lashes, so I use the back of my sleeve to wipe my face. I hadn’t realized I was crying.

 

My whole body pops when I get back up. My back is soaked and my hair’s stuck to my forehead. I glance to the sparkling towers of the mansion through the leaves before turning around and walking in the opposite direction.

  


* * *

 

 

_Shit fuck goddammit._

 

I slam the screen door so hard it nearly falls off the hinges and just barely manage keeping my balance as I lean against the wall to steady myself.

 

Tristan’s head whips around, and her eyes widen. “What’s wrong?”

 

LJ’s eyes focus past me. “Where’s Aeron?”

 

“I told him to leave,” I say blankly.

 

“ _What_ ?” Tristan jumps up and races to the door. “You told him to _leave_?”

 

“Yes.”

 

She turns around, looking like she’s about to give me an earful, but then she realizes the state of my arms. “Oh my God. Go get EJ. Now!” she barks the last bit to LJ, who glances down at my arms and immediately rushes out of the rooms. Tristan grabs my shoulders and forces me to sit down on the couch.

 

“What did he do?” she demands, eyes raking over the marks on my arms. I slowly look down to examine them. It looks like I was struck by lightning.

 

“I held him against a tree,” I tell her.

 

“ _What_? Why?”

 

I look at my shaking fingers and huff. “He was going to make the whole place explode. What else was I supposed to do? Throw him into the lake?”

 

“Yes, but he _left_?!”

 

“I think so.” I glance out the window. I don’t see him. All I see is a small and steady plume of smoke rising from the area. “I told him he was worthless, that Slenderman’s using him, and that he should leave.”

 

Tristan’s jaw goes slack.

 

“What? I was being honest,” I say defensively.

 

“Well yes, it’s true, but you shouldn’t have _told_ ‘em!” she hisses.

 

EJ rushes into the room behind LJ, and I see Helen trailing behind him. EJ drops to his knees in front of me and grabs my arms. I hiss.

 

“What’s it look like?” he asks Helen, voice clearly panicked.

 

“Lightning, maybe?” Helen guesses. “Not a regular burn mark.”

 

EJ rifles through a small gym bag, running his fingers over the Braille labels on the vials before he finds the one he’s looking for. “Tristan and LJ - go look for Aeron. Don’t let him do anything stupid.” _Like burn down the whole forest_. Shit, I didn’t think of that.

 

EJ puts a cold cream on my arms, and I wince. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Like I just got electrocuted,” I snap.

 

“Well, you did.” EJ tugs my sleeves up further, and I panic a little when my scars are visible. If Tristan notices, she doesn’t say anything. She’s already packing up with LJ to go find Aeron. I notice her tucking a gun into the hem of her jeans. “What did you tell Aeron?”

 

“What everyone else is thinking,” I tell him calmly.

 

“And that’s what?” EJ asks. I can tell he’s struggling to keep calm.

 

“That he’s not wanted here,” I say placidly. “And that Slenderman’s using him.”

 

Helen winces right before EJ freezes.

 

I lean back against the wall. “It’s true.”

 

EJ’s grip tightens around my arm. I’m too tired to acknowledge the pain. He raises his head, empty sockets boring into my soul. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

 

“I know,” I tell him tiredly.

 

Helen rubs EJ’s shoulder and mumbles something into his ear.

 

“He’ll be back,” I add quietly.

 

Helen’s always-empty eyes snap over to me. “How do you know?” It’s the first time he’s spoken to me in months. Ben, who’s been silent the whole time, shifts uncomfortably near the doorway.

 

“Because he’s stubborn,” I say. “And once he realizes he has nowhere else to go.”

 

EJ frowns. “You did this on purpose?”

 

“He’ll be back.”

  


* * *

 

 

I find myself back in the old junkyard.

 

The gates are open like always, and the yard is empty. I walk past the busted mirror from a few days ago. The shards are scattered from the wind, but I can still see where I’d melted them into the ground. Half of the mirror is still intact, though slightly melted around the break. My reflection is warped, but I can tell that I still look like shit. My hair’s tousled, some of it sticking to my forehead and some strands straight up in the air, it’s obvious I’ve been crying, and there’s ash and grass all over my face.

 

I punch the mirror.

 

Pain shoots up my arm as the shards cut into me. Most of the glass melts into nothing from the heat of my anger before it can cut me, but the jagged pieces slice right through my sleeve and burn when they cut into my arm.

 

I stagger backwards, breaths coming out in uneven gasps. The mirror falls over, and the rest of the glass shatters upon the impact with the ground.

 

I look down at my bloodied arm and slowly tug the remains of my sleeve around so I can see the damage. Only a few pieces of shrapnel are still stuck in my skin. I pull them out, toss them over my shoulder, and turn to find something else to destroy.

 

My eyes land on a 2005 Toyota Corolla. You couldn’t be able to tell the brand through the damage done to it, though - the whole front end is crushed up, the windshield nonexistent, and the remains wheels have been brought up near the roof. Hell, it doesn’t even look like a car anymore. Just a chunk of metal and bloodstained leather seats hanging halfway out the window. But I recognize it immediately.

 

My hands fly up to my mouth as bile rises in my throat. My knees lock up, and that’s the only thing keeping me from falling over. My tears burn as they slip down my cheeks, cutting trails through the ash.

 

“ _Dad_ ,” I choke, staggering over to the remains of the Corolla. I brush my fingers over the crushed and twisted door, along the bloodstains that they didn’t see a reason to wash off. I see images flashing in the back of my mind; the ambulance, the quilt they put over him on the stretcher, the blood all over the road, the transfer truck flipped on its side.

 

My fingers heat up until the metal is on fire, and I stumble back and fall.

 

After a few moments, I move back a safe distance and watch the Corolla burn.

  


* * *

 

 

As I’m putting my helmet on, I hear LJ running up behind me.

 

“Tristan!” he calls. I turn.

 

“Yeah?”

 

He stops beside my bike. “Where are you checking?”

 

“The roadways south of the old junkyard,” I tell him.

 

“I’ll check the forest north.”

 

I nod. “Good idea. If you don’t find him after an hour, go ahead an’ start comin’ back. I’m gonna search ‘til sunfall.”

 

“Alright.” LJ crosses his arms. “You don’t have an extra helmet for him?”

 

I flash him a grin. “He better hold on tight.”

 

He rolls his eyes. “Stay safe, alright?”

 

“I will. Don’t get into any trouble. You have my number if you need me.” I turn the keys and kick the stand back. Over the roar of the motorcycle, I shout, “An’ if you find the little bastard, don’t provoke ‘em!”

 

LJ salutes as I fly out of the lot, kicking up gravel behind me. The trail to the main road is small, but I should be able to navigate it alright as long as I don’t fly.

 

Goddammit. That kid’s recklessness is gonna get him killed one day. Reminds me of Peggy.

 

I swallow and race towards the road.

  


* * *

 

 

I wait outside of Slenderman’s office while EJ talks to him inside.

 

The door’s shut, so I can barely pick up on their conversation. Something about Aeron coming back, I catch the term ‘walker,’ and a few frustrated shouts. My stomach rolls when I hear the scraping of a chair on marble. My turn.

 

EJ walks out of the office and sighs, hand clasping my shoulder. “Don’t get on his nerves, for the love of everything holy.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I’ll be right outside the room if . . . if something goes wrong,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper than Slenderman can’t hear. “Just scream if you need me.”

 

I swallow. “Yeah.”

 

EJ gently pushes me towards the door, and then leans against the wall, ready to rush into the room in case I’m in danger. I enter the office, refusing to look at Slenderman behind the desk, and shut the door behind me.

 

_Sit._

 

His deep, echoey voice makes me flinch. It’s frustratingly monotone - I can’t tell if he’s angry or not. I sit in the chair, tugging the sleeves of my sweater down. EJ had given it to me, said something about the fabric being made not to irritate the marks left over from Aeron’s magic.

 

_Let me see your arms._

 

Shit.

 

I roll my sleeves back up and place both my hands on the desk. Slenderman doesn’t move, just tilts his head down to survey them. I see, with a settling sense of horror, that his tendrils are out, probably nearly a hundred of them, and are all curling around the back wall of the room. Ready to strike if I do something stupid.

 

_This will scar._

 

“I know,” I say quietly. I don’t really care. The parts that will scar won’t be too noticeable, and it’s not like I don’t already have a shitload of them. Knife fights, gun wounds, stupid suicide attempts, that one time I angered a raccoon, and the time some shithead from the neighborhood caught my arms on fire.

 

_What did you say to Aeron?_

 

I swallow. “I, uh . . . Told . . . Him that he should leave.”

 

_Is that all?_

 

“And that no one wants him here.”

 

One of the tendrils curls up beside the desk, and I feel another one sliding across the back of my neck. My hands begin to shake. “That’s all.”

 

_Is it?_

 

“Yes.”

 

My thoughts begin to swirl in a panic. EJ wouldn’t rat me out, would he?  

 

_I think you’re lying to me._

 

My nails scratch into the armrest of the chair. “That’s all I said.”

 

The tendril on my neck retreats.

 

_Quit lying to me, Jeffrey._

 

“I’m not lying to you.” It’s more of a plea than anything.

 

Slenderman’s silent for a long time, and I begin wondering if making a dash for the door is a good idea.

 

_You will continue your punishment for your fight earlier this week when he returns._

 

I open my mouth to speak, but his hands suddenly tighten around my arms, and my speech is cut off with a pained gasp. I try to jerk my arms back. His grip tightens more, and he leans forwards, until his featureless face is inches away from mine.

 

_But for this, I don’t think chores will suffice._

 

 _This_. My blood runs cold. He did. EJ told Slenderman what I said.

 

Slenderman rises.

  


* * *

 

 

The road is quiet.

 

I have no idea how long I’ve been walking, but the sun is beginning to set, so it’s been . . . God. I’ve been walking all fucking day.

 

The numbness from finding my dad’s car has finally left. Sam was a piece of shit, and I really don’t miss him that much, but . . . Seeing what his death did to Mom was the most painful part of it. Seeing that she still believed he loved her after all the shit he put her through.

 

I’m probably the biggest idiot in a hundred mile radius for walking this long on the side of the road. Everyone’s going to be pissed. And I _should_ be heading back, because letting Jeff’s words get to me would be letting him win the argument, but admitting to myself that I’m lost as hell as been difficult since I stumbled out of the woods.

 

The eerie quiet of the area sends a chill down my spine. No birds, no crickets or frogs, nothing. I haven’t seen a single car since I left the woods. Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen _any_ life other than a deer that had bounded off some hours ago. Not even the trees are rustling.

 

I have no idea where the nearest town is. I know Portsend is relatively close to the mansion - we have Helen go there for supplies sometimes. But since I’m never allowed into towns, I have no idea where it is from here. I can’t tell where the sun is over the clouds in the sky. It looks like it’s about to rain.

 

As I’m nearing the top of a hill, I see something in the distance. Roadkill, it looks like - a deer. There’s someone standing over it. I don’t see a car or bike, so it must be a hiker or something.

 

I jog a few steps forwards, opening my mouth to call to them, but I stop dead in my tracks.

 

The person - or whatever it is - is leaning over the deer, _eating_ it. I see it pulling intestines out of the deer remains and bringing them up to its face. Its legs are long and twisted, as are its arms, and it’s wearing nothing, revealing jutting hip bones and a twisted spine.

 

My voice dies off, and I take a step back, my boot crunching in the gravel. The thing’s head snaps up.

 

It looks like a burn victim. Wide, lidless eyes, lips peeled back to to the gums, and two upturned silts for a nose. My scream freezes in my throat, and my legs refuse to move. I watch in horror as it rises to stand several feet tall above the deer, and then its body twists until it’s on all fours, knees bent backwards, and it begins rapidly crawling towards me.

 

I finally scream, and a line of fire flies from my arms and hits the ground hard enough to crack the whole road in half. I don’t know if it hits the creature, and I don’t care to look back when I take off, leaving a trail of fire behind me.

 

I hear a loud roar.

 

Two bright lights round a corner, and I see a flash of green.

 

“ _TRISTAN!_ ”

 

The motorcycle screeches to a halt, and I see Tristan quickly going to jump off, but I wave my arms. “ _NO!_ ” I scream, grabbing her arms so hard that she nearly falls off of it. “Just fucking go! Go the other way!”

 

“What?” she says, bewildered.

 

I’m on the back of the bike in a single leap, screaming in her ear. Then I hear a chittering, like teeth clicking against each other, and in the distance, I see a figure crawling towards us. Fast.

 

“Fucking _GO!_ ” I shriek in her ear.

 

Tristan kicks off the ground and the motorcycle spins around. I wrap my arms around her torso and hold on tight as the bike jerks and takes off in the direction it came in. We nearly topple over going over the curve at what has to be over eighty miles an hour.

 

When we slow down a bit, several miles away from where I destroyed the road and that creature, I realize that I’m trembling.

 

“The hell’s wrong with you?” I hear Tristan mutter over the purr of the bike.

 

“Just get me the fuck home,” I croak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this whole thing was rushed and i wrote it at 4 am after i drank three monsters and entered the astral realm


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a very brief chapter in which tristan essentially becomes a mother, aeron has some gay feelings, and it generally looks like everything's not on fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for my shitty spanish fklnfkdnf

Tristan’s hand is on my back the whole walk from the garage to the mansion. I can hardly keep myself on my feet, so she more or less drags me. 

 

I see a figure running towards us from the porch, shouting. He’s unfairly tall and has wild black hair. It takes me a moment to recall LJ’s name. 

 

“What happened?” he wheezes, upon seeing the traumatized expression on my face. 

 

“I dono.” Tristan rubs my back. “He freaked the hell out.” 

 

“Get him to his room,” LJ says, and that’s when I realize the panic in his voice. “Don’t let anyone see him. Don’t let Slenderman know he’s here yet.” 

 

Tristan tenses. “What? Why? What happened?” 

 

“EJ - I . . .” LJ shakes his head. “Just take him from the greenhouse. Don’t let him out of his room.” 

 

Tristan nods, and as LJ heads back inside, she and I rush to the back of the mansion where the greenhouse is under my tower. Her hands are tight around my shoulders, and I feel her nails digging into my skin. I wrap my arm around her shoulders to make it easier, but my legs still won’t move on their own. It’s taking everything I have not to begin panicking. 

 

I hadn’t thought about what Slenderman would do to me for burning Jeff, or catching the tree on fire. Maybe he knows about what Jeff said to me, and Jeff - 

 

My nails scratch Tristan’s neck, and she winces. “Jeff,” I whisper hoarsely. My throat is raw from screaming. “Where is he?” 

 

“I don’t know.” Tristan kicks open the greenhouse door. 

 

“Is he alright?” 

 

“I  _ don’t know _ .” 

 

“What did I do?” I grip her as we race up the stairs. 

 

“You burned him.” 

 

“Was it bad?” 

 

“I don’t know.” Tristan’s voice is thick. “EJ and Helen had no idea what had happened. It wasn’t like any burn they’d seen before. Jeff couldn’t feel it.” 

 

I swallow. “Slenderman’s going to kill me.” 

 

“I won’t let ‘em hurt you.” 

 

We make it to my room, and Tristan ushers me to the bathroom. “You need a bath, you’re caked in shit. Are you alright with me bein’ in here?” 

 

“I’m fine,” I breathe, wincing when my ribs pop. 

 

“Do you have a first aid kit nearby?” Tristan asks me as she helps me sit down against the wall. She reaches over and turns the water on. “Your arms are hella fucked up. What happened?” 

 

“Under the sink. I punched a mirror in the junkyard,” I mumble, tugging my shirt over my head. 

 

“D’you set the car on fire, too?” 

 

“It was my dad’s.” My voice cracks. 

 

Tristan gives me an apologetic look, pats my knee, and then returns to searching for the white box. “I’m sorry, kid. Hurts like shit, I know.” 

 

I laugh breathlessly. “It’s not so bad. He was an asshole.” 

 

“What ‘bout your mother?” 

 

“I don’t know.” I haven’t spoken to Mom in, what, three, four years? “She lives in South Dakota, last I’m aware. I don’t like talking about her.” 

 

“I understand. I lost someone,” Tristan tells me, turning around with some medical supplies. I hold my arm out for her to examine. It takes more strength than I’d like to admit to keep it steady. “Peggy Steinberg. Her family moved. Never got to tell her bye.” 

 

I close my eyes. “Was she a good friend?” 

 

Tristan snorts. “ _ Good _ friend.” 

 

I grin. “ _ That  _ kind of friend?” 

 

“Yes,  _ that  _ kind of friend.” Tristan’s probably rolling her eyes. “Tattooed some nice shit she said on my thigh when she left. Tried social media throughout the years an’ shit, but couldn’t ever find anythin’.” 

 

“Wouldn’t she keep in contact?” 

 

“Girl lived in a religious cult. I was her opportunity to breathe.” I hear her swallow. “Told me to dye my hair green as a bet, didn’t think I’d actually do it. I can’t stand it bein’ any different.” 

 

I don’t know what to say, so I let the silence take over. Tristan finishes picking shards of glass out of my arm, cleans it up, and helps me pull my ruined pants off. She places my boots neatly at the bathroom entrance. 

 

“So,” she says slowly, “wanna tell me what you saw back there that had you damn near catatonic?” 

 

“I - I don’t know what it was.” I shiver thinking about it. “Like a person, but thin, with long legs and stuff. Naked, I think. It was leaning over this dead deer on the road and . . . just eating it. It started crawling towards me,  _ really  _ fast, and then you pulled up.” 

 

“Think you can draw it?” she asks. 

 

“Maybe? I’m not a good artist.” 

 

Tristan nods. “Alright. Into the tub.” 

 

I wince as she helps me to my feet. “I put bubbles in it,” she adds. “Might help you calm down a bit. You got any candles?” 

 

“Yeah.” I weakly point towards my dresser. 

 

Tristan helps me settle into the water and then tramps off to grab the candles. She returns a moment later and holds them towards me. “Wanna do the honors?” 

 

I huff and pull a small flame to my fingertips. Tristan holds the wick under my finger and once the candle is lit, she places it along the wall shelves near the tub. “You good to wash your hair?” 

 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. I really don’t want Tristan’s nails anywhere near my scalp. 

 

Tristan nods and picks up my ruined clothing. “I’ll get you somethin’ to wear. Tell me if you need help gettin’ out.” 

 

“Thank you,” I breathe.

 

Tristan smiles and rubs my arm. “No problem, kiddo.” 

 

While Tristan bustles around my room looking through my drawers and securing the locks on my door and windows, I scrub the ash, dirt, and blood from my body. The vanilla scent from the candles helps settle my nerves some, but I still can’t stop thinking about Jeff and EJ. I hope they’re alright. 

 

I’ve regained enough strength by the time I’m finished washing off to pull myself out of the tub. Tristan hands me some striped pajama pants a black long-sleeved shirt and helps me limp to the bed. 

 

My back pops when I crash into the mattress. Tristan turns the light off, and the only thing illuminating my room is my salt lamp. She hops onto the bed next to me, and the two of us are silent as she finishes patching my arms up. 

 

“Thank you,” I mumble. 

 

“No problem. I’ll walk down with you in the mornin’. Make sure, you know. Nothin’ happens.” Tristan leans against the headboard and places her gun in her lap. “Go ahead an’ sleep. You went through a whole lot of shit today.” 

 

I nod and roll over to face the door. I’m asleep as soon as my eyes close. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

I’m not sure what time it is when I wake up, but it’s still dark outside, and Tristan is asleep beside of me. I don’t feel like I’ve rested very long. 

 

I pull energy from the pool deep in my chest and use it to slide out of bed and walk over to the door. I’m still exhausted. 

 

The walk down the stairs to the empty hallway is taxing. My magic is barely enough to keep me standing, and I have to brace myself against the wall with a hand. It’s unusually cold and quiet in the manor halls. Dead, like all life’s been sucked out of the woodwork. I can feel the depression settling on my shoulders as I continue towards the lights I see leaking out onto the marble floors. It’s coming from the kitchen. 

 

I hear the running of water off and on, and porcelain clinking. A long shadow cast on the wall. 

 

I peek around the doorway and see Jeff standing at the sink, silently doing dishes. It looks like he’s either just started or he’s working so slowly that he’s hardly gotten anything done. I see a broom leaning against the counter, and on top of the counter a huge chunk of a plate. Must have dropped it. 

 

As I get closer, I see why. His arms are shaking, and he looks like he’s about to fall over. 

 

Jeff jumps when I come up beside of him, nearly dropping the cup he’s currently holding. I stay quiet as I take the cup from his hands and grab a sponge.

 

“Don’t you know how to use a dishwasher?” I tease, tapping on the edge of the washer. Jeff says nothing. 

 

The kitchen lapses back into silence. Jeff scrubs huge chunks off the dishes, so slowly that I can feel the threads of my sanity unravelling, but I keep quiet. He’s trying not to drop them through the violent shaking of his arms. After listening to his quiet grunts and teeth-gritting for a minute or two, I realize that he’s fighting through pain. 

 

I take a plate from him and place it in the dishwasher. “Did he hurt you?” I breathe, voice barely above a whisper. 

 

Jeff says nothing, just takes another plate from the pile of dirty dishes to his right and starts scrubbing. 

 

I gently take it from him, place it in the washer, and turn around. He doesn’t acknowledge me when I place an arm on his shoulder, but tenses when I go to turn him around. 

 

I jerk my arm back. 

 

There’s a horrendous gash on the right side of his face, from his forehead down to his jaw. It doesn’t even look like it’s been bandaged or tended to. The blood is crusted around the edges, but it still looks damp. 

 

Jeff returns to doing the dishes while I stare at him in shock. “Jeff -” 

 

“It’s fine,” he says quietly. 

 

“No it’s not!” I protest, grabbing his shoulder. I spin him around to face me. His eyes flicker briefly down to my bandaged arms, and I can see confusion in his face, as if he’s trying to remember whether or not he did it. “I punched a mirror,” I tell him. 

 

Jeff’s face goes empty, and then he sighs. “Why am I not surprised?” 

 

“Who did this?” I ask tersely. 

 

“Who do you think?” he shoots back. 

 

“Was this because you told me to leave?” 

 

Jeff’s eyes go to the floor. “No.” 

 

“Then why?” 

 

“Because I told you he was using you.” Jeff can’t even bring himself to say Slenderman’s name. I don’t blame him. 

 

I tentatively bring my hand to his. I squeeze his hand until he looks at me. 

 

“We’ve got to be better,” I tell him tiredly. 

 

Jeff nods. 

 

“We can . . . finish these,” I say quietly. “Tristan’s in my room. She might be able to fix your jaw, and -” 

 

Jeff shakes his head. “No one’s allowed to touch it.” 

 

“Well, I don’t give a shit. I’ll touch it, and Slenderman can shove it up his ass,” I snap. 

 

Jeff looks down at our intertwined fingers and huffs. “I didn’t mean what I said.” 

 

“I know you didn’t.” 

 

“You didn’t waste any time in running off.” 

 

I sigh and let go of his hand. “I didn’t want to burn the forest down. Then I got lost.” 

 

Jeff groans and grabs another plate. “Of course you did.” 

 

We resume washing the dishes in silence. Once we finish all of them, I turn the dishwasher on and Jeff wipes down the counter. I fish two water bottles from the fridge and toss one to him. 

 

“I’m gonna fix up your face,” I tell him over the rim of my water bottle. 

 

Jeff looks like he’s about to argue, but he ends up placing his bottle on the counter and staring at the ground. 

 

“I’m glad you came back,” he says quietly. 

 

I press down a smile. “Yeah. Me too.” 

 

“La próxima vez que te vayas, te voy a patear el trasero.” 

 

“Is that Spanish for ‘you’re a very cool dude and I’m so glad you exist?’” 

 

Jeff rolls his eyes. “No.” 

 

“Aw.” 

 

When we’ve both emptied our water bottles, we head back down the hall. Jeff walks next to me, and when I see his door coming up, I glance down at his hand. He’s still shaking, but not as bad as he was an hour ago. 

 

He stops in front of his door and sighs. “Thank you for helping.” 

 

I shrug. “I’m not a total asshole.” 

 

“But you’re close.” 

 

I elbow him playfully. “Shut up.” 

 

Jeff puts his hand on the doorknob. “Training tomorrow?” 

 

I quirk a brow. “Not until I check your face out.” 

 

“Well, bring a first aid kit down to the lake.” 

 

“I’ll try not to forget.” That’s stupid of me to say. There’s no way I’m forgetting that gash in his face. 

 

Before Jeff opens the door, I reach forwards and grab his hand, curling my fingers around his. I can feel him still shaking. I’ll bring painkillers too. 

 

Jeff looks at me, and squeezes my hand. 

 

“If Slenderman touches you again,” I say quietly, struggling for words, “. . . you tell me.” 

 

Jeff’s quiet for a few seconds, until he nods. “I will.” 

 

“Thank you.”

 

He smiles, and then I’m alone in the hallway. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aeron pours the milk first

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my writing gets worse and worse as time goes on

Tristan wakes me up in the morning. 

 

I roll over with a muffled groan. She swats the side of my head. “It’s dawn. Come on, let’s get something to eat.” 

 

It only takes me a couple of minutes to remember Jeff’s wound and the . . . what was that? A bonding moment? I helped him do dishes, and he opened up a bit. I touched him without burning him, without him flinching away.

 

Tristan raises a brow. “You good?” 

 

“I - Yeah, I’m fine.” I sit up and pat my hair down. “I still have training with Jeff.” 

 

Tristan’s face falls a bit. “What, you’re really goin’ down there after what happened yesterday?” 

 

Oh, right. It  _ does  _ seem weird that I’m so eager to get down there after the shitshow that was yesterday morning. And evening. I was walking for a  _ long  _ time. “I’m fine,” I tell her over my shoulder as I pull on an oversized sweater and some jeans. I grab a bag and start filling it with medical supplies. 

 

“What’re those for?” Tristan asks suspiciously. 

 

“Uh -” 

 

“You snuck out last night, didn’t you?” 

 

I wince. There’s no point in lying. “Yeah.” 

 

“Tell me everythin’.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

“You snuck out!” 

 

“Fine,  _ mom _ ,” I grumble. “I saw Jeff. Slenderman hit him in the face, or something, because he had this huge gash, and . . . No one’s allowed to help him with it, but I decided that I’m going to, because if I don’t, it’s going to get infected and that’s nasty.” 

 

Tristan’s eyes widen. “How big was it?” 

 

I point to the side of my eyebrow, then drag my finger down to my jaw. “He looked like he was in pain. I said I’d help him during training.” 

 

Tristan considers me for a moment, then says, “I’ll get you two some food. You know what you’re doin’ with his face?” 

 

“I learned some stuff from EJ.” 

 

She nods. “I’ll go talk to LJ. He’ll keep his mouth shut. Did Jeff tell you anythin’?” 

 

“No. But we agreed to be friendlier to each other,” I say. “I walked him back to his room so he didn’t collapse or anything. I don’t think he knows how to use a dishwasher.” 

 

Tristan walks with me down the stairs. “How bad was he shakin’?” 

 

“Well, for one, he dropped a plate, and when I held his hand -” 

 

“What?” She stops walking.

 

I look at her. “Platonically.” 

 

“Mhm.” 

 

“It was shaking pretty badly.” 

 

“Shit,” Tristan grumbles under her breath. 

 

We make it into the kitchen and Tristan quickly throws some stuff together. I’ve never seen her cook before, but she manages to make a few omelettes in what has to be record time, and then puts everything in tupperware and shoves it into my arms. “I’ll make sure no one goes down there,” she tells me. “There’s a place a little further down the path you two can go to if the original trainin’ yard’s too messy.” 

 

“Thank you.” I put the tupperware into my gym bag, give her a side hug, and race down to the yard. 

 

It’s chilly out. I’m glad I wore long sleeves. 

 

The silence that was over the mansion last night is present in the front yard. None of the birds are singing, the trees are still, and a depressing aura follows me down all the way to the path. I try not to think of that creature I saw yesterday, of the possibility of it having followed us here, and continue down the path until I see a familiar figure hunched over on one of the rocks. 

 

I hop into the clearing. “Tristan said there’s another clearing further down the trail. Wanna go?” 

 

Jeff slides off the rock, and I catch him wincing and grabbing his side. “Yeah. Let’s go.” 

 

“Did you bring your knife?” I ask him nonchalantly. Could a knife kill that creature? I hope so. 

 

Jeff glances at me. “I bring it everywhere.” 

 

“Good.” 

 

“Why? Planning on murdering me?” It’s meant to be a joke, but I can hear a genuine shred of worry in his voice. 

 

“I wouldn’t murder you,” I mutter. 

 

We enter a small clearing with a wooden picnic table in the center. There are lanterns hanging up around the trees, and a small path to the lake where the water looks shallow. Jeff raises his eyebrows in surprise as I help him limp into the clearing. “Huh.” 

 

“Fancy,” I comment. “Come on. Tristan made some stuff.” 

 

He sits across from me at the table and puts his head in his arms. I go through what Tristan made - two omelettes, sausage, boiled eggs, and rice. I have a significantly larger portion than Jeff. 

 

“Here.” I hand him the bowls with his name scribbled on Sharpie. “She crushed up some stuff for your pain in there too.” 

 

Jeff hums. “Tristan makes good rice.” 

 

“Do you label everyone on their ability to make rice?” I ask him. 

 

“That’s how I decide your worth.” 

 

“What’s your verdict on me?” 

 

“Haven’t seen you make anything but a bowl of cereal.” Jeff rolls some of his rice into a ball. “And you pour the milk first, so you’re off to a terrible start.” 

 

I glare at him with no real irritation behind it. “You put ice cubes in your coffee.” 

 

Jeff looks like he’s just been caught committing a crime. He almost drops the rice ball. “That was  _ one  _ time -” 

 

“One time too many.” 

 

“In my defense,” he says loudly, “I was drunk off my ass.” I flick some rice at him and receive a chunk of omelette to the back of my hand. 

 

We finish eating in silence, and I start to mull over the events of yesterday. Between finding my father’s car and nearly getting my shit rocked by some wendigo-looking thing, I don’t think I had any time to really worry about the consequences of almost burning down the forest. Or what would happen to Jeff. I knew that he’d get blamed for everything. What I don’t get is how Slenderman found out Jeff was talking shit. 

 

As I’m putting my tupperware back in the gym bag and rifling through for the medicinal supplies, I say, “What exactly happened with Slenderman?” 

 

I see him unconsciously glance over his shoulder. “He doesn’t like it when you tell the truth.” 

 

“And the truth is?” 

 

“That he’s using you.” By his tone of voice, I can tell there’s something he’s not telling me, but I let it slide.

 

I lean against the wooden table and place the first aid kit in front of me. “Well, yeah. Anyone with eyes can see that. But he hit you for it?” 

 

Jeff nods, already warily eyeing the bottle of rubbing alcohol I snagged. 

 

“How’d he know?” I ask. 

 

Jeff curls his hair with a finger, something I’ve noticed he does when he’s about to lie. “EJ told him.” 

 

My hands pause over the kit, and my magic wells up in my throat. “He told.” 

 

“Yeah.” Jeff’s watching my face carefully. “Don’t - don’t give him shit for it.” 

 

“Of  _ course  _ I’m going to give him shit for it,” I growl. The plastic on the box begins to melt. “Slenderman could have had you killed and it would’ve been his fault.” 

 

Jeff sighs and brings his fingers up to his wound. “Slenderman enjoys control, and EJ doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. I would’ve done the same if that skinny bastard threatened me.” 

 

“No one should have to fear him like that,” I say quietly. 

 

“Well, we do. That’s how things are.” Jeff shrugs. 

 

I pour some water onto a rag from a bottle and motion for Jeff to turn his head so I can reach the wound. The majority of it’s scabbed over - thankfully it doesn’t seem like it was too deep of a cut - but it looks like it’s infected, and one corner is oozing a gross mix of pus and blood. 

 

“Yeah, this is gross,” I tell him. 

 

“I haven’t looked at it,” Jeff says idly. 

 

“You haven’t?” 

 

“I try to avoid mirrors.” As soon as he says that, he winces. Must have accidentally let it slip. I don’t comment on it, for the sake of not stressing him out more than he is already. I know he’s seen the surgical needle and thread already.

 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks warily, hand trailing up to rest next to my arm. 

 

“Sort of. Mom’s roommate was a doctor, and I always got into fights, so he taught me how to bandage shit. Never had something like this, though.” I wipe away the blood as gently as possible. The dried blood isn’t smeared in any way. “Did you sleep last night?” 

 

“Couldn’t.” 

 

Jeff tries focusing on anything but the massive curved needle lying on the table, and before I’ve even finished cleaning the wound, he’s antsy and shifting every few seconds. 

 

“You need to keep still,” I say. “Especially when I’ve got the needle.” 

 

“Is the . . . needle necessary?” 

 

“Don’t like needles?” I tease. Then I see the genuine fear in his eyes and feel bad. “Oh. Sorry.” 

 

I lean back and examine the wound. It’s deep, but not so that it goes completely through his cheek. Only the part near his jaw might need stitches. “I might only have to suture half of this. Did he strike from above or below?” 

 

“Above,” Jeff says faintly. He’s still staring at the needle. 

 

I pour a little bit of the rubbing alcohol onto a soft cloth pad and reach over. “Stay still. This’ll burn.” 

 

Jeff hisses when I press the cloth against his face and gently begin cleaning the dried chunks of blood away. It bubbles a bit. 

 

I grab the needle driver and position myself across from him, leaning nearly halfway off the table. “I’ve already sterilized everything, so uh, I guess don’t worry about that?” 

 

“Is this gonna hurt?” he asks. 

 

“Probably.” I position the needle at a 90 degree angle and look at Jeff. He’s staring straight ahead, face pale. “I’ll poke you right before I push the needle in, alright?” 

 

“Mhm. Just hurry.” 

 

Jeff jumps when I pull the needle through his skin and digs his nails into the table. I quickly wrap it around the driver, pull the wound, tie two knots, and cut the string off. Jeff groans as I move onto the next suture. “How long is this going to take?” 

 

“As long as you want it to.” 

 

Jeff grumbles and crosses his legs over the bench. He remains still for the rest of the process - I only need to make ten small stitches from the base of his jaw to halfway between his cheek. Once I make sure all the sutures are tightened, I press a bandage on top of it and give him a pat. “There. Done. Painless.” 

 

“It took every cell in my body not to pass out,” Jeff tells me darkly. 

 

“That’s from fear.” I hastily throw everything back into the first aid kit. “You don’t really look like you’re up to self-defense training, so . . . what do you want to do?” 

 

“Die.” 

 

“You can’t do that.” 

 

“Bitch.” 

 

I roll my eyes. “Thanks.” 

 

We hear the bushes rustling, and my throat closes up with magic when for a moment I think back to that horrifying thing at the road, crouching over that deer carcass. Jeff steps back when he feels the heat coming off my skin. 

 

But it’s just Tristan. 

 

She jumps out from the bushes with a couple of leaves stuck in her nappy hair and groans. “Goddamn, don’t remember this trail bein’ so fuckin’ overgrown.” 

 

“ _ Fuck _ , you scared me,” I wheeze, pushing the magic back into my chest. “Warn us next time.” 

 

Tristan’s eyes jump over to Jeff’s bandaged face. “What happened?” 

 

Jeff shrugs. “Slenderman happened.” 

 

“Ugh. Gross.” Tristan walks over to the picnic table and grabs my tub of rice. She shovels a spoonful into her mouth and jumps up onto the table; “So I’ve got a plan, yeah.” 

 

I raise my eyebrows. “A plan for what?” 

 

“I’m takin’ you back to the highway, yeah, and we’re gonna . . . look.” Her eyes warily go towards Jeff, who’s just looking at us with a confused expression. “For, you know.” 

 

“Today?” 

 

“Tomorrow mornin’, probably. Because  _ today _ ,” her voice lowers, “EJ came up to me, said Slender was lookin’ for you. And I’ve got shit to do.”  _ Shit to do. _ Something tells me the shit she has to do is going to piss Slenderman off if he finds out about it. 

 

“Do I need to go  _ now _ ?” 

 

Tristan shrugs. “I would. Hate to keep ‘em waitin’.” 

 

Jeff straightens up. “I’ll go with you.” 

 

Tristan shakes her head. “No, you need to help me with somethin’. And I don’t want you anywhere near Slender’s office. Aeron, you’re comin’ back to my room as soon as you’re done with ‘em, alright?” 

 

“Yep.” 

 

I leave my bag on the table and head back up to the mansion. The woodpecker has started back up again, and the forest surrounding the ancient building seems more lively now. EJ told me, not soon after I moved here, that Slenderman is somehow connected to the forest. Maybe it reflects his mood. 

 

No. That’s dumb. 

 

The only person in the living room is Sadie. She doesn’t acknowledge me when I walk in through the screen door, just briefly glances up from her book before curling up further into the cushions. The only noise is the grandfather clock. 

 

“Good morning,” I say quietly. 

 

Sadie’s good eye flickers back up to me, and she surveys my face with that strange expression. It reminds me of my mother, only Sadie’s  _ actually  _ a ghost, and Mom just looked and acted like one. 

 

“Good morning,” she says, voice low and raspy, like she’s an 80 year old smoker or something. She speaks lightly, as if it hurts to talk. I guess it might have something to do with the wounds on her neck that are always covered in bandages. Something about her vocal chords being slashed. 

 

“Have you, uh, seen EJ or Tim?” I ask her nervously. 

 

Sadie’s eye doesn’t leave my face. She always looks like she’s been crying, and her complete lack of a pupil is really fucking unsettling. “I haven’t,” she says mellowly, gently turning a page of her book, as if she’s afraid of it falling apart. 

 

“Is Brian here?” 

 

“No.” With an air of finality, Sadie goes back to her book. 

 

I walk past her into the hallway, where it’s just as silent and eerie. Normally, by now, people are beginning to wake up and head over to the whiteboard in the living room where jobs are posted every now and then for those who want them. I was supposed to take one some time ago. My burnout fucked that up for me. 

 

Tim is standing outside of Slenderman’s office, as if he’d been waiting for me. I shudder at the emptiness in his eyes. “Morning, Tim.” 

 

He says nothing. His face hardly flickers with any emotion other than brief recognition before he dips his chin just a few inches. The only respectful greeting he’ll give me. I wonder if he’s even allowed to. 

 

“Don’t forget to take your medicine,” I tell him idly as I walk past, putting on the old facade: the stubborn piece of shit I’d been when I first got here. Slenderman found me insufferable.

 

Tim’s lips twitch. 

 

“Oh, and start wearing your mask,” I add offhandedly, resting my fingers around the doorknob. “If I have to keep looking at your sad face, I might get my virginity back.” 

 

His eyes narrow. The first bit of emotion I’ve seen in months. 

 

I jerk the door open and swing into the office, letting it slam shut behind me. The only light offered is that of a single lamp at the desk. Slenderman’s sitting there with his arms crossed, a mass of swirling and dripping tentacles climbing up the walls and bookshelves behind him. There’s a bloodstain on the floor. 

 

“Good morning!” I say cheerfully. “Did you need me for anything?” 

 

_ Sit. _

 

“Will do.” I plop myself into the chair and cross my legs on the desk. Slenderman doesn’t knock them off like he used to. He’s probably given up. Or just doesn’t care anymore. 

 

_ I heard about the incident yesterday. _

 

“Oh, yeah, that,” I snort, running my fingers through my messy hair. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I really needed to blow off some steam.” 

 

_ I am not concerned with your departure. _

 

“Oh?” 

 

_ I am interested in what Jeffrey Hodek told you regarding my . . . opinions of you. _

 

Slenderman hesitates. He’s never hesitated before. Odd. “What he said? Fuck, let me see if I remember. Said I was worthless, no one wanted me, you were using me, and I think that’s it. Yeah, that’s it. Oh! He told me to leave. That too.” 

 

_ And you left. _

 

I grin sheepishly. “Yeah. Figured I should’ve busted out of there before I blew the whole forest down.” 

 

_ I am glad you didn’t. _

 

“Me too.” Slenderman would have killed me. 

 

Slenderman’s fingers are tapping on the desk. I try not to show any nervousness, knowing that he’s assessing my face and posture for any hint that I’m lying. 

 

_ Have you seen him? _

 

“Oh, yeah. Nice work on his face,” I chime. “Bastard had it coming, don’t you think? Maybe he’ll leave me the fuck alone now.” 

 

_ Indeed. _

 

He’s silent for a while. Then says, 

 

_ You will continue your training. _

 

“Can do.” 

 

_ And you will not be required to speak with him in the afternoon. _

 

“No kitchen duty?” 

 

_ No.  _

 

“Sweet. Can I leave?” 

 

Slenderman’s bony features flicker, just for a moment. 

 

_ You may leave.  _

 

I haul ass out of his office, not even giving a second glance towards Tim, still standing out there obediently. I notice that he’s wearing his mask. Loser.

 

Despite the long distance between Slenderman’s office and Tristan’s room, I get there within a couple seconds and nearly fall on my ass bursting through the door. Jeff’s sitting on the bed reading something, and Tristan’s shuffling through documents at her desk. She glances up at me. 

 

“Oh, you’re here. And in one piece. How’d it go?” she asks. 

 

“He didn’t seem angry,” I say, shutting and locking the door behind me. “He just asked about what Jeff said, and told me not to speak to him in the afternoons.” 

 

Jeff frowns. “No kitchen job?” 

 

“Guess not.” 

 

“Yeah, but he also acted different,” I tell them, jumping on the bed next to Jeff. “Like  _ really  _ different. He was . . . I don’t fucking know, soft-spoken? He said something about his opinions of me, and he hesitated, like he was trying to think of what to say?” 

 

Jeff’s frown deepens. “He doesn’t ever hesitate.” 

 

“ _ Exactly _ .” 

 

“Suspicious,” Tristan agrees. 

 

“Sadie was out, too, and it looked like she was . . . I don’t know. Listening?” I guess. “She’s  _ never  _ out this early. I don’t know if that’s suspicious or not, but I found it odd. I haven’t seen anyone but her and Tim. And Tim looked normal. You know, like he hasn’t seen the sun in over a thousand years.” 

 

Tristan snorts. “Yeah, that’s Tim. Bastard’s  _ creepy _ .” 

 

I shift. “The forest feels different.” 

 

Both of them look at me incredulously. 

 

“. . .  _ What _ ?” Jeff and Tristan say in unison. 

 

“You didn’t notice? It’s weird.” I shrug, beginning to feel unease settling in. “It’s quiet. Feels sad, but like it’s listening to you at the same time. I have this annoying ass woodpecker outside my window and it’s been silent since yesterday.” 

 

Tristan thinks for a moment. “Yeah, I guess so. Didn’t really notice.” 

 

“I didn’t,” Jeff grumbles, leaning against the wall. “You two are fucking weird, I hope you know that.” 

 

Tristan waves her hand dismissively. “That  _ could  _ be coincidence - after all, the forest is a forest, but I’ve been studyin’ disappearances for the past couple months, and I found somethin’ interestin’. Remember that thing you saw?” 

 

Jeff looks at her with raised brows. “Thing? What thing?” 

 

“When I ran off,” I explain. “I found this thing over a deer carcass on the side of the -  _ oh _ .” It suddenly feels like someone’s poured ice water over me. “Tristan, the forest - it was quiet, too. When I saw it. Just like here.” 

 

That’s why I haven’t been able to shake off the paranoia, despite the protective barrier around this forest. 

 

Jeff puts his hands up. “Wait, okay - Please explain what you saw to me, because I’m lost.” 

 

“I - I don’t know. It was like a person, but it’s knees were backwards, and the arms and legs were long. Hairless. Wide eyes, no lids. Looked like it was burned.” I feel a lump in my throat just thinking about it. “It started, like,  _ crawling _ . Really fast. My magic saved my ass, and then Tristan pulled up.” 

 

Jeff’s face falls. “Oh. Lovely.”

 

“With the missin’ persons - they’ve only found one. Apparently there’s what they  _ thought  _ was a group of freemasons runnin’ around, but turns out it’s some religious cult. Person they found had run away, said somethin’ about, and I quote -” she pulls up one of her documents - “‘a very skinny man with long arms and backwards knees.’ ‘Course, they just thought he was goin’ crazy. Had ‘em locked up in a mental ward for evaluation. Killed himself three days ago.” 

 

“Fuck,” Jeff mutters. 

 

“We need to go back,” I say. “If there’s something around there - a meeting place for the cult, or the remains of that thing if I managed to kill it,  _ something _ , we need to find it.” 

 

Tristan rubs her chin, and her eyes narrow with thought. “Think Slenderman might know somethin’?” 

 

“What’re you suggesting?” Jeff asks warily. “We’re not breaking into his -” 

 

“Office!” Tristan gasps. Jeff pinches the bridge of his nose. “Aeron, you’re on his good side at the moment, yeah? Break into his office when he’s out an’ look around. If he finds you, just catch ‘em on fire.” 

 

“That’s a . . . terrible idea,” I say slowly. Jeff nods in agreement. “But I’ll do it.” Jeff glares at me. 

 

“ _ Yes _ !” Tristan slams the documents onto her desk and stands up. “We’re goin’ to find that motherfucker right now. Jeff, I want you doin’ more research on this cult. You’re handy with the deep web, yeah?” 

 

“No?” 

 

“Perfect! Now let’s go.” She grabs my arm and hauls me off the bed. “Jeff, we’ll be back in under an hour.”

 

Jeff scowls. 

 

“Don’t wear your face out, dear, it’s the only one you’ve got,” she tells him, and then slams the door shut, leaving us in the hallway. 

 

“Tristan,” I whisper-yell as she begins marching down the hallway. I have to jog to keep up with her. “Tristan, wait. I don’t think we should get Jeff involved. You know he doesn’t like Slenderman, and Slenderman hates him enough to always frame him for shit he didn’t do. If we get caught -” 

 

“We won’t get caught, an’ if we do, I’ll kill the bitch,” Tristan says. “I ain’t afraid of that slimy ass bastard.” Despite her words, she lowers her voice so no one overhears us. 

 

“I don’t want him getting hurt.” 

 

Tristan stops and turns around to look at me with a familiar glint in her eyes. “You know, I remember sayin’ the same thing ‘bout Peggy.” 

 

It takes me a moment to realize what she’s saying. My face grows warm. “It’s not like that.” 

 

“Sure, kid.” 

 

“Don’t call me a kid.” 

 

“I’m almost thirty, I can call you whatever the hell I want.” 

 

I roll my eyes. “You’re not that much older than me.”

 

“What are you, sixteen?” Tristan squints in my direction as she walks into the living room. Sadie isn’t on the couch anymore.

 

“I’m twenty-two,” I mutter. 

 

“Nah, you’re still a baby,” she muses, smacking the screen door open with her hip. “Besides, lookin’ like you’re still a teenager should be a compliment.” 

 

“It isn’t.” I follow her off the porch towards the shed where she keeps her motorcycle. Slenderman said we’re not allowed to buy vehicles, so Tristan built hers last summer. 

 

She tosses me one of those fancy modular helmets. “Don’t want you fallin’ off and breakin’ your neck,” she says as she pulls her helmet over her head. 

 

I wrap my arms around her waist, and with a loud roar from the engine, Tristan takes off down the trail towards the old road. 

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 pages of "i can't write a fight scene for shit"

We pull up near the crack in the road.

 

The whole road is completely split in half, and there are scorch marks from my fire. Strangely, though, there’s no block-offs on the road, no caution tape, and no deer carcass.

 

“It’s _gone_?” I gasp, pulling my helmet off and racing towards the massive bloodstain where the deer was once laying.

 

“Coulda dragged it off,” Tristan suggests.

 

“That deer was massive, I don’t think . . .” I look around for any drag marks. It hasn’t rained, so any marks left should still be evident in the dirt. I don’t see anything. There aren’t any other bloodstains, either. “I think it ate the whole thing.”

 

Tristan crinkles her nose. “That’s nasty.”

 

“There isn’t any caution tape,” I comment. “Do you think anyone’s come down here since yesterday?”

 

“Well, we’re in the shit zone of Oregon,” she says. “Not many people out here.”

 

“But there’s a town not too far away.”

 

“Well, that’s . . . that’s a good point. And there should’ve been at least _one_ ranger here.” Tristan puts her hands on her hips. “It leads to the main highway, and it’s near that time of year where everyone’s going on vacation, so . . .”

 

While I pace around the crack in the road, Tristan watches me warily. “Aeron, are . . . are you sure you saw somethin’?”

 

I whirl around. “ _Yes_ , I saw it. There’s a bloodstain, so there was _something_ , and -” I turn back to the massive stain on the asphalt. “It wasn’t a hallucination, Tristan, I saw it. I wouldn’t have hallucinated something that someone else _saw_ -”

 

“Look.”

 

Tristan’s voice has gone deathly quiet.

 

I turn around to follow her gaze into the treeline. There’s a car appearing to have been parked on a small trail off the main road, so obscured by the trees that it’s a wonder Tristan even saw it. She walks past me, and I follow her towards the vehicle. It’s a patrol car.

 

“So I guess someone _did_ call this in,” Tristan mumbles. “Must’ve been the smoke.”

 

“Car’s not on,” I say.

 

“Could be watchin’?”

 

I shrug and follow her down the trail. The patrol car’s windows are tinted, so it’s difficult to see inside. Tristan shuffles past me and goes around to the window. I glance down and notice that the dirt is disturbed off to the side, and one of the tired has been slashed.

 

My skin prickles. “Uh, Tristan -”

 

“Holy _shit_ !” she gasps, jumping away from the window. I see her face turning green. “Oh, Jesus _fuck_ , that is disgusting. Holy shit. I’m gonna puke.”

 

“What?” I walk around to the window and glance in. I can hardly make out the outline of the police officer, pressed against the seat with his head snapped halfway off, hanging on by what looks like tendrils of muscle and bone. His face has been ripped off and is plastered against the opposite window, facing outwards.

 

I jerk back and swallow the bile in my throat. “He - he has slashes in his chest. Like the tire.”

 

Tristan, leaning against a tree choking back bile, shakes her head. “Nah, fuck this. We’re goin’ home.”

 

I look past the car into the forest. “Hey. Look at the dirt. Something was dragged through here.”

 

“Probably another fucking police officer!” Tristan whisper-screams. “I don’t feel like gettin’ my head ripped off, so let’s _go_.”

 

I gasp. “The dash cam.”

 

“If you open that door I swear to God -”

 

I yank on the door handle. It’s locked.

 

“ _Aeron_ .” Tristan’s voice goes stone solid. “Do _not_ open that door, Aeron, because the smell’s gonna hit and I’m gonna barf.”

 

“Then cover your nose,” I tell her, right before concentrate magic around my arm and slam my elbow into the corner of the window.

 

A piece of glass cuts into my cheek and my arm feels like I’ve broken every bone, but the glass gives in, and the smell of rotting flesh and blood hits my nose and nearly makes me vomit. I clasp a hand over my nose and reach into the car, pouring heat into the palm of my hand to melt the rubber holding the camera to the windshield.

 

Once it comes off, I pull myself out of the car and stumble back. “Ah, shit. That’s bad.”

 

Tristan shudders. “We need to report this.”

 

I shove the camera into my pocket, hoping that it’s not too fucked up, and turn away from the car. “We should follow the markings in the dirt. If that thing I saw did this, it might . . . be useful.”

 

Tristan shrugs. “Maybe. But we don’t know anythin’ ‘bout this, so it’ll be dangerous.”

 

“Well, when have we ever been ones to take precautions?” I chime, walking past her towards the trail. Tristan follows close behind.

 

“You talk as though we didn’t just start gettin’ to know each other like . . . Two days ago.”

 

I grin at her. “I’m a very friendly individual.”

 

“Sure, kiddo.”

 

She follows me into the brush, still gagging occasionally from the smell of decay that follows us down the path. It takes a lot of willpower not to lean over and puke. Tristan has an army knife out and a pistol, and I suddenly feel dumb for not bringing any weapons.

 

“The trail . . . splits.” We stop walking as I survey the markings in the dirt - it breaks off into two separate paths, one more claw-like, one looking as though a person had been scrabbling at the earth. Tristan steps up beside me and peers into the forest following the path of the claw marks.

 

“Well, what d’you wanna do?” she asks. “I don’t feel like following those marks.”

 

“This one, then?” I start walking down the separate trail, making sure I don’t step over the marks, and Tristan falls in step close behind me. The trees start to get closer to each other, and I see where chunks of bark has been ripped off, the grass has been torn from the ground, and the brush surrounding the path is shredded.

 

“Somethin’ was dragged through here pretty fuckin’ fast,” Tristan notes.

 

All the hair on my neck suddenly stands up, and I get the feeling of being watched.

 

I turn around, catching a sharp movement of white through the trees, and feel magic pressing at my throat in a panic. Tristan sees my expression and has her gun aimed immediately, stepping up behind me to cover my front. “What’d you see?”

 

“Something running through the trees.” I turn around in a full circle, beginning to properly panic. “We gotta leave.”

 

“Aeron, calm down,” Tristan says gently, but it doesn’t do much when I can tell she’s starting to get anxious too. “You’re gettin’ hot.”

 

I feel ash trickling from my eyelashes and quickly wipe it off before Tristan can see. “I’m fine. We need to leave before -”

 

The bushes rustle, and before I can finish my sentence, a figure barrels from the leaves. I see a flash of green and red, a cut off shriek, and then Tristan flies back. I spin around and see her tumbling down the hill, quickly out of sight through the thick foliage. Then I hear three gunshots.

 

“Tristan!” I shout, grabbing a smaller tree and sliding a few feet down the cliff. “ _Tristan_!”

 

A glinting catches my eye.

 

I squint through the bushes, heading towards the source of the glint. It’s a small necklace hanging from the branches of a tree. I gently tug it off and pocket it.

 

Another gunshot jerks me back into a reality, a thick plume of smoke shooting up from underneath my feet. I hurry towards the edge of the cliff and look over. “Tristan?”

 

“I’m good!” I hear her calling. “Didn’t mean to shoot the first times. But I have a dead body lyin’ on top of me and I’m kinda freakin’ the fuck out.”

 

“ _WHAT?_ ”

 

“I think it’s the officer?”

 

“Can you get back up?”

 

I hear some branches snapping, and a loud curse. “Shit, I dunno. I think I just fuckin’ concussed myself.”

 

“Alright, hold on. I’ll try to -”

 

Something barrels into my side before I can finish .

 

The smell of death and blood hits my nose before I can register what’s happening - pain wracks through my body, and I’m suddenly on the other side of a tree with bark sticking from my arms and a huge fucking trunk falling in my direction.

 

I roll out of the way as the tree comes down. A branch whips the side of my face and I cringe.

 

A figure stands up in the dust. I recognize the long limbs and twisted face.

 

“TRISTAN!” I scream, scrambling backwards. “It’s back! It’s back and it just threw me through a fucking tree!”

 

“What the fuck are you okay?” I hear her shout.

 

I throw a bolt of smoldering fire towards the monster, and it catches on the surrounding brush and grows until the smoke starts to burn my eyes. My skin feels like it’s trying to _come off_ , and the ash under my eyes is so thick I can hardly see -

 

A sharp pain to my ribs, and then I’m being slammed against a tree. The whole trunk cracks and bends from the force of it, and I feel it catching on fire underneath me. A hand goes around my throat and I gasp and claw at the thin, grayish arm.

 

Dull, lidless eyes bore into mine as I writhe and struggle for air. Its breath is rancid. I try not to look into its face, but there’s nowhere else.

 

The gunshot shatters through my panic, and the claw rips from my throat, dragging a strip of skin along with it. The creature is flung to the ground from the force of the shot. Tristan stumbles through the fire, coughing, hand over her mouth.

 

“Come on!” she shouts, gun aimed at the monster. It’s not getting back up.

 

I peel myself from the tree and run straight through the fire, completely untouched, towards her. Tristan takes a few steps away from me - must feel the heat - and takes off in the direction we came in.

 

The fire has spread to the entrance of the forest.

 

“Oh, my God,” she wheezes. She’s got tears streaming down her face. “Bike. Now.”

 

I wipe ash from my face and hop onto the motorcycle behind her, calming down the magic in my arms before I wrap my arms around her waist. Tristan takes off at the speed of a bullet down the road.

 

“What the fuck happened?” she shouts over the roaring wind.

 

“I’m traumatized, just get me home,” I yell back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more gay feelings, this time from our lovely human disaster jeff,,, also sadie finally getting the love she fuckin' deserves

Tristan and Aeron stumble back into the bedroom two hours after leaving. 

 

I stop picking at my bandage and look up from the bed as they enter, slamming the door shut behind them. Aeron immediately collapses to his knees and starts to dry heave. They both look like they’ve been through hell. 

 

I quickly set my papers aside. “What happened?” 

 

“Fuckin’ monster is what happened,” Tristan coughs. “Aeron went through a fuckin’ tree, started a forest fire. Fuckin’ cops an’ shit, all bloody massacred.” 

 

“ _ What _ ?” 

 

“The dash cam,” Aeron wheezes, struggling to get to his feet. He pulls a small device out of his pocket and holds it up. “I got the dash cam to the police car we found. The officers were both killed by that thing I saw yesterday. We ran into it.” 

 

“You went through a  _ tree _ ?” 

 

“Didn’t hurt at all.” He sounds . . . proud? 

 

“That’s the shock, Aeron,” Tristan tells him dryly. 

 

Aeron waves her off dismissively. 

 

His clothes are burned halfway off his body. I wince. “You’re gonna need to change.” 

 

Aeron gives me a lopsided grin. “I bet you’d like that.” 

 

“Is he alright?” I look at Tristan warily. 

 

“No, he got a fuckin’ concussion, or somethin’,” Tristan grumbles, throwing her jacket onto the ground. “Used too much magic. Nearly fell off my bike on the way here. Started singin’ the iCarly theme song.” 

 

I drag Aeron over to the bed and toss him down onto the mattress. “Take your shirt off,” I tell him. 

 

“Ooh, I like it when you get bossy,” he says with a grin. 

 

“You’re really good at gettin’ fucked up,” Tristan comments. I note the amount of blood that’s on his clothes. Hopefully it’s not his. I don’t think it’s his. 

 

Aeron rolls his eyes. “I’m fine. Just disoriented.” 

 

“Shirt off,” I repeat harshly. “You’re getting ash all over the place. I’ll find you something else to wear.” 

 

“Ugh.” Aeron pulls his shirt over his head and throws it at me. “Catch it, bitch. Bet you’ll hang that up over your bed and jerk off to it.” 

 

“I’m going to put you in a chokehold,” I tell him calmly. 

 

“You won’t do shit, you pale-faced fuck.”

 

“Te voy a hervir los dientes.” 

 

“ _ Guys _ ,” Tristan says sharply. “Keep your fighting for the bedroom.” 

 

“You're not helping,” Aeron chimes. 

 

Tristan picks the dash cam off the desk and turns it over in her hands while I rifle through my gym bag on the floor. All I’ve got is a big ass sweater. I don’t think it’ll fit Aeron, but I toss it to him anyways. Bitch can deal with it. 

 

“How do we look at the footage?” she asks. 

 

Aeron shrugs, pulling the sweater over his head. “No fucking clue. I just know it records shit. Uh, not to change the subject, but does anyone have some water? I think I burned my throat.” 

 

I try to ignore his tousled hair and toss him a water bottle. 

 

Tristan collapses into her office chair and twirls around to face us. “I’ll try to figure out how to get this workin’. You two can, uh . . .” Her eyes trail over to my pile of papers on the bed. “Oh, right. D’you find anythin’?” 

 

“Uh, no, not really. Just a shitload of eulogies and missing person profiles.” I shrug. “Found out there’s a drug ring nearby, though. Goes all the way into Washington.” 

 

“That’s not . . . alright.” Tristan stretches. “We need a plan, kiddos.” 

 

Aeron frowns. “I’m not a kid.” 

 

“You’re barely above the drinkin’ age, shut up,” Tristan says calmly. Aeron scowls and flicks his bottlecap towards her. It misses. “So Jeff, tell me what you’re thinkin’.” 

 

“You’re asking  _ me _ ?” I say incredulously. 

 

Aeron perks up. “He doesn’t think. Rule number one of training lessons.” Then he grins at me. “See? I learned something!” 

 

“I hate you,” I tell him. 

 

“Alright, nevermind. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” Tristan twirls in her chair again and faces us, her expression serious. “Aeron’s goin’ into Slenderman’s office to look around tonight. If you get caught, just say you were lookin’ for ‘em. I’m gonna look into gettin’ the video footage from the dash cam. Jeff, you can . . . uh . . .” 

 

I cross my arms. 

 

“Keep goin’ through the papers,” she says, almost apologetically. 

 

Ah, great. I’m useless again. 

 

Aeron squints. “He can’t do anything else?” Oh,  _ thank you _ Aeron, art not thou mine hero, with your dumbass questions and beautiful face. Fuck off.  

 

“If I find somethin’, I’ll tell ‘em,” Tristan says. 

 

I wave dismissively, trying to keep my disappointment out of my voice. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I enjoy going through a bunch of worthless shit about how and when Mr.So-And-So went to meet Jesus and whether or not Mr. Suspect took a shit in iHop last Sunday.” 

 

Aeron snorts. “That’s rough, buddy.” 

 

“Shut the fuck up, you skinny piece of -” 

 

“ _ Jeff _ ,” Tristan warns. I shoot her a glare. We’d talked about me not being a piece of shit to Aeron, and I’d agreed, but she’s gotta realize that breaking promises and being an asshole are the only things I’m good at doing. 

 

“You know what I feel like doing?” I rise from the bed and stretch. “I’m gonna go and be an asshole to Ben. You guys tell me if you find anything, I’ll just be somewhere else.” 

 

“Jeff,” Tristan repeats. 

 

“Later.” I flip the two of them off, grab the pile of papers, and leave the room before either of them can say anything. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Tristan facepalms. “God, he’s sad.” 

 

I look at her. “Well, we all knew that.” 

 

“Aeron.” 

 

“What?” 

 

Tristan gives me the Mutual Look Of Disappointment. “I’m tryin’ to telepathically communicate with you, but you’re not gettin’ the memo.” 

 

“Well shit me sideways, I didn’t know I was suddenly a fucking alien,” I say in a dead voice. “What are you trying to say, O Mighty Green One?” 

 

“Alright one, if you call me that again, we’re gonna have some real issues,” Tristan says. “And two, I’m tryin’ to tell you to get your pale ass out there and comfort your boyfriend.” 

 

I blink. “Do I look like a therapist to you?” 

 

“Oh, no, you’re nowhere close,” Tristan snorts. “But only you can say shit so dumb it lifts Miss Sunshine’s mood.” 

 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I add, after an only slightly awkward pause of thought. “If anyone in this household would  _ ever  _ meet my standards, it would be that framed picture of Tom Hardy in the living room.” 

 

Tristan rolls her eyes. “Please, you’re foolin’ nobody. You ain’t got no standards.” 

 

“That is, unfortunately, very true.”

 

“Go talk to ‘em.” 

 

“I don’t want tooooo,” I whine, batting her hands away when she tries to drag me off the bed. “He’s gonna be  _ meaaaaan. _ ” 

 

“What are you, five?” 

 

“Twenty-two!” I announce proudly. 

 

Tristan’s face falls. “We might need to get your head checked out.”    
  


 

* * *

  
  


Ben’s nowhere to be found, which doesn’t really surprise me. He took some job in Tokyo, apparently. 

 

But LJ’s out and about, talking to Puppet (no one knows  _ his  _ real name, and frankly no one gives a shit, since he’s a bigger asshole than me and that’s a fucking feat). Zero’s leaning over the edge of the couch, and when she sees me entering the room she gives a grin that makes my chest burn. 

 

“Jeffy, you’re up!” she says cheerfully, eyes shining with malice. Wonder how she’d look without eyes. “How’s your face doing?” 

 

“I literally  _ just  _ walked in here and you’re already being a bitch,” I say numbly. 

 

“No fighting, children,” says LJ softly, in the worse British accent I’ve ever heard in my life. Puppet settles further into the couch and grins, crossing his hands over his leg. Probably internally betting over who will punch the other first. 

 

Zero’s grin widens. “How’s the mirror been treating you?” 

 

I remember what Tristan had said. Something about not fighting anyone or she’ll steal my kneecaps, or tell Aeron something that would destroy what little pride I have left after getting slapped in the fucking face by Slenderman, or something along those lines. Not really compelling. 

 

“Listen, you Laughing Jack knockoff,” I tell her tiredly, followed by a wince from LJ, “I don’t have time to listen to you puking up all that trauma from your past, so please shut the fuck up.” 

 

Zero abruptly jumps up, presumably to start cussing me out like an angry middle-aged soccer mom at Walmart or to punch me in the throat, but Puppet beats her to it; “What the fuck’s wrong with  _ you _ ?” he muses, a grin playing on his lips. “Someone break your heart again?” 

 

“Like you broke Helen’s heart, you dirty cheating piece of shit?” I smile sweetly, giving his shoulder a pat as I pass by. His smile disappears. “That’s what I thought. Later, jackass.” 

 

“I just witnessed a double homicide,” LJ says excitedly. 

 

I hop out onto the porch, tucking the papers underneath my arm. The only person out there is Sadie, sitting on the rocking chair reading a book. Must be listening, or brooding, or whatever she does. I don’t think she does anything but read. 

 

She doesn’t look up as I sit in the chair next to her and slap the folio into my lap. Just tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and continues reading. I crane my neck to see what she’s reading.  _ If You Could Be Mine. _

 

“You could just ask.” 

 

I jump and and nearly drop the papers. I’d forgotten how unsettling her voice is. “Sorry,” I grumble, collecting the papers. “Figured you wouldn’t wanna talk.” 

 

Sadie hums and casually turns a page in her book. “I don’t mind you.” 

 

“Really? I feel like I’m the one person you should mind.” 

 

“Why is that?” 

 

“I don’t know, maybe because I’m an asshole?” I grumble. 

 

Sadie makes the verbal equivalent of an eyeroll. “Since when did an attitude make you an asshole?” 

 

“Uh, since . . .” I think. “Let’s see. Since I got my arms mauled for being a sarcastic piece of shit . . . Oh, right, I made Aeron run off and got hit by Mister Noodle in there.” 

 

Sadie’s lips twitch. It’s the closest to a smile I’m gonna get. “At least you’re not Zero.” 

 

“Does she bully you too?” 

 

“She bullies everyone, Jeffrey.” Sadie closes her book and gives me a tired look. Well . . . more tired than usual. She always looks exhausted. And Sadie’s the only one I don’t bother calling me Jeffrey. Maybe because she’s the only one (besides maybe Sally) who isn’t an ass. 

 

“Aeron thinks I’m in my thirties,” Sadie says suddenly. 

 

I blink, surprised. “How’d you know?” 

 

“Telepathy,” she says simply. 

 

I try not to laugh.  _ Thirty? _ “What makes him think that?” 

 

“He thought you were fifteen,” she adds. “When you two first met.” 

 

“Well, in his defense, I thought he was a girl until he spoke.” 

 

Sadie’s eyes dance with mirth. Wish I could get her to smile. “Aeron doesn’t know I can read thoughts. He has interesting ones.” 

 

“Does he now?” 

 

“Mhm.” 

 

She’s setting me up to ask, but I’m not going to take the bait. Not yet. “So . . . Can you read Slenderman’s thoughts?” I ask carefully. Sadie trusts me, and I trust her completely, despite how much I preach about not trusting anyone. I know she won’t go back to Slenderman. 

 

Sadie thinks for a moment. “No, I can’t. Aeron’s an open book, because he doesn’t know. You’re hard to read, too, but I can still do it. Slenderman is . . . Hm. Strong.” 

 

I nod. “That makes sense, I guess.” 

 

“Are you planning a revolution?” she asks. 

 

“Uh . . . no.” 

 

“Pity.” 

 

“You’d participate in a revolution?” I ask amusedly. 

 

“Of course. I hate him.” There’s a sudden pain in her eyes, and I internally hope she’s not about to cry. I don’t know how to deal with crying, especially when it’s Sadie. “Dying was the only thing I thought I could do right, and he took that from me.” 

 

Awkwardly, I reach over and rub her shoulder. “If we’re planning a revolution, you’ll be the first one to know.” 

 

Sadie’s lips tug into a smile. “You’re kinder than you give yourself credit for, Jeffrey.” 

 

“All I said was -” 

 

“I know what you wanted to say.” Sadie puts her cold hand over mine. “You don’t have to hurt yourself. You don’t deserve it, especially not after all you’ve done for me and Helen. And Aeron,” she adds thoughtfully. “He feels better because of you. He uses you to challenge himself. He’s grown.” 

 

I point at her. “This is why he thinks you’re thirty. It’s the pep talks.” 

 

Sadie gives me another grin that seems . . . slightly out of place. “You mean a lot to me. And Helen. He still talks about you, you know.” 

 

That surprises me. “Does he?” 

 

“Yes.” Sadie leans back in the chair and stares off into the forest. “I know we all have terrible pasts, but you . . . You really went through hell, didn’t you?” 

 

I tense. 

 

Sadie continues; “Slenderman knows.” 

 

My blood runs cold, and I try not to let the dread show on my face, in case someone’s watching us. “Knows what?” 

 

“What happened to you in the syndicate housing,” she says quietly. “What you went through. What you saw. He’s going to use it against you, sooner or later.” 

 

“Sadie -” 

 

“I know you don’t like to remember. But I thought I should let you know.” Sadie’s voice goes deathly quiet; “Has Aeron told you about the library?” 

 

I frown. “No . . . ?” 

 

“There’s a library in the old section of the building,” Sadie tells me quietly, her good eye hastily scanning the yard. As if she’s afraid someone’s going to overhear us. Or if someone’s watching. “I’ve only been there twice, but . . . Slenderman has it blocked off. There’s evil down there. You need to warn Aeron, before he opens something he can’t close.” 

 

“This is . . . a lot to take in, are you sure -” 

 

“Slenderman watches. He knows everything in this forest.” Sadie shakes her head dismissively. “You can’t escape from him. He’ll find out sooner or later that Aeron is going down there, and the consequences . . .” The shudder that follows the silence tells me everything I need to know. 

 

I nod slowly. Is that why Aeron never showed up late in the afternoon? He was fucking around in an old ass library in the abandoned section of the mansion? Why does that actually seem like something Aeron would do? 

 

Sadie pats my arm. “I’m watching for you guys.” 

 

“Thank you.” 

 

Her smile is sad. “Good luck.” 

 

“Why are you acting like I’m gonna die?” 

 

“Oh. I am, aren’t I?” 

 

“Christ.” 

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> : )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LJ's POV

**January 3rd, 2017**

 

He’s powerful. 

 

Slenderman had told me to be as kind as possible to him. I’d watched the news - we all had, and winced at the gory images the broadcast had shown. The three images of the men who had gone missing and been found massacred in the alleyway refuses to leave my mind. 

 

Like damn. I’m violent when I kill - that’s nothing new. But I have to at least put some  _ effort  _ into it. This kid turned those guys into wine at the drop of a hat. 

 

We didn’t realize it was from magic until Ben pointed out the scorch marks surrounding the crime scene. That had piqued Slenderman’s interest - a powerful entity, young and scared, mind all over the place, easy to manipulate? It sounded like a fucking superb deal to him, and he sent me to take care of it.

 

I hadn’t been expecting the sheer power of the boy.

 

“Please,” I say, noting how he bristles when I step closer. “Fighting me would be suicide, kid.” 

 

He snarls. It’s an animalistic noise, and makes the hairs on my neck stand. He’s terrified, the poor kid. Of himself, of me, of the magic I can sense boiling beneath his skin. I take another step, my palms facing him. “My name is Jack. I know someone who can help you.” 

 

“I don’t need help,” the man snarls, brown hair falling in front of his wild eyes. I can see strands of white already - a byproduct of the uncontrolled magic coursing through his veins. “I don’t need  _ your  _ help, I don’t need anything from you.” 

 

“You’re burning on the inside,” I say gently. “And it’s only going to get worse. It’s going to consume you if you can’t learn to control it. We can help you.” 

 

The fire around his hands crackle. There’s small flakes of ash falling from his hair. The savage, wild look in his eyes is only getting worse as he realizes that he can’t stop the fire in his palms. I can’t get any closer without feeling the heat. 

 

“Calm down,” I tell him, fighting to keep my voice soft and steady. “Breathe.” 

 

“Don’t tell me what to do!” His voice rises to a panicked shriek, and the windows behind him crack with the thunderous force of his anger. The circles under his eyes tell me that he hasn’t been taking care of himself, hasn’t been sleeping. He must have broken down once he killed those men. 

 

“ _ Don’t fucking come near me _ !” he screams, when I take a step towards him. A chair flies across the room and slams against the wall, sending shards of wood and glass between us. I jump back in alarm. 

 

The items lying across the ground begin to levitate, and the lights above us begin to flicker. All the heat leaves the room, and my breath comes out in clouds in front of me. I take another step towards him. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

 

“ _ I don’t care _ .” His voice has dropped in pitch, a raspy baritone that makes me abruptly stop walking. It sounds . . . familiar. 

 

I say his name, hoping to get through his panic, but it only seems to make things worse. The boy screams, gripping the sides of his head. The fire goes out, all the heat and oxygen rushes back to the room, and then the windows shatter. 

 

The sound is horrendous. I shield my face from the glass, and once things have calmed down, I reach for the gun in my back pocket. There might not be any getting through to him. Slenderman gave me permission to kill him if he didn't cooperate. I don't think either of us thought I'd need it. 

 

“Do you want to die?” I ask him slowly. 

 

He’s bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. Shirt and forehead soaked with sweat. Trembling like a leaf. He looks like garbage, to put it simply. That might even be putting it mildly. 

 

“You’re going to die a slow and agonizing death,” I tell him. Nothing but the full truth. That’s what Slenderman had said. “The magic in your veins is insidious, it’s spreading, and it’s going to consume you if you can't learn how to control it. I can help you. My friends can help you. You’ll be safe.” 

 

He grits his teeth, and I see blood dripping from his nose into his mouth. It doesn’t seem to bother him. “Fuck off. I don’t need your help.” 

 

“You’re scared.” 

 

“I’m not  _ scared _ .” He spits out a mouthful of blood and stumbles a bit, grabbing onto the back of the chair for support. “I don’t need your help. I don’t want it. Get the fuck away from me.” 

 

“You killed three men last month,” I say. His eyes go wide. “You slaughtered them. Burned them to a crisp within seconds - do you honestly think the same won’t happen to you the split second your magic gets out of control? Or perhaps it’ll happen to a loved one. The whole neighborhood? What will you do then?” 

 

I see his resolve breaking away. Good. 

 

“Get away from me,” he rasps. I can see him fighting to keep standing, struggling against the pain he’s in. I wonder how quick it took for him to get to this state. 

 

Alright. Maybe this  _ isn’t  _ working. 

 

“Look,” I say, voice dropping. “I can leave you here. But know that if the magic doesn’t kill you first, my boss will. And neither of those deaths will be painless. Coming with us -” 

 

Before I can finish, the poor kid falls to the ground, convulses, and vomits all over the ground, a sob catching in his throat from the pain. The fire in his hands goes out, and I see that he’s not burned at all from it. He must be immune. 

 

I carefully walk towards him and drop to my knees, staring at his shaking frame. Can’t really pity him - he got here by himself. But damn. This guy’s pathetic. 

 

“Come on, kid,” I say gently, not daring to touch him. I can still feel the heat from his skin. “Sadie’s outside. She’ll help you feel better.” 

 

He doesn’t fight me when I pick him up and carefully carry him through the house like a baby. He’s still shaking, choking on his own sobs.

 

Alright, I take it back. I pity the kid. 

 

Sadie’s outside, unbothered by the cold weather. I set the kid down in the snow and toss some onto his arms, wincing when the ice melts and sizzles. But he seems to calm down just a bit. 

 

Sadie looks at me, face full of worry. “Is he going to be alright?” 

 

“He’s having a panic attack,” I tell her, right on cue to the guy’s sudden hyperventilation. “That and he’s in pain.” 

 

She drops to her knees in front of him and places her pale hand on his forehead. The heat immediately dissipates, and he leans over gasping. Sadie winces; “I’m taking his pain away, but it might not help with his panic attack.” 

 

“That’s fine. We just need him alive,” I tell her gruffly. “EJ’s going to kill me if he gets injured.” 

 

She shoots me a sharp glare. “He’s not a pawn. Don’t treat him like one.” 

 

“I’m treating him like a dangerous entity - which he is.” 

 

“What’s your name, dear?” Sadie asks, despite the fact that she already knows his name. 

 

He tells her. 

 

“Might have to change that,” I say lamely, leaning against the porch railing, watching as Sadie packs together some snow and presses it against his forehead and arms. “None of us really use our real names - besides maybe Jeff. And Ben.” And Toby, and the  _other_ Jack, and - well, that's besides the point. 

 

He looks up at me, his eyes clearing a bit. He’s still trembling so violently I think he might puke again, but he manages to get something out.

 

“Aeron,” he rasps. “Call me Aeron.” 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more gay feelings featuring a ridiculous amount of slugs

I thought Slenderman’s office scared me when he was in it. For some reason, him  _ not  _ being in it is ten times worse. 

 

Jeff disappeared - don’t know where the fuck he went, and Tristan can’t find him anywhere. All I know is that he said something to Zero, pissed her off, said something to Puppet, pissed him off, and then ran outside. Maybe he just wanted to frolic. Who knows. 

 

But back to the office. 

 

He’s nowhere to be seen - Tristan’s prediction was right. The only trouble I ran into was Tim in the hallway, looking empty-eyed and distant, and sneaking past him wasn’t too difficult. 

 

But I don’t know where to begin. 

 

There are papers stacked  _ everywhere  _ \- along the walls, crumpled on the floors, stacks of them on the desk. In fact, there isn’t actually  _ any  _ wallspace. It’s all fucking bookshelves. Does Slenderman read? Can he even  _ see _ ? Can the tentacles read Braille? 

 

God. That’s a horrifying thought. 

 

I start at the desk - all the documents are on boring shit, like magical anomalies and vortexes. I’m certain I have a file here somewhere. I’d like to know what Slenderman has to say about me. Probably something along the lines of,  _ ‘Found a small angry child, he almost blew the whole forest up, won’t stop singing I Need A Hero. _ ’ 

 

“Fuck me, fuck me,” I hiss, rummaging through the desk drawers. A bunch of clutter. Some files I don’t care about. Probably a diary or something. Maybe a grocery list. 

 

A small bin by the foot of the desk catches my attention - profiles. On all of us. 

 

Me being me, I grab mine and Jeff’s. 

 

Mine is exactly how I imagined it would be. Fifteen pages of Slenderman passive-aggressively raging over my ‘undue attitude and insidious influence over Sally Williams.’ My height (5’5, let’s fucking go), weight, BMI, all the information from my hospital records, my anxiety diagnoses, the notes from my two hospital visits and the multiple therapy sessions afterwards. 

 

Man. He knows everything, doesn’t he? 

 

I toss mine back into the bin and flip through Jeff’s. There are more pictures of him - him as a baby, probably taken at a hospital (damn he was a cute baby), his height (5’11, no fucking fair) what looks like a yearbook photo from 9th grade, and a picture of him in a hospital. He’s hooked up to so many machines that it’s hard to tell what’s going on. 

 

There’s some information in there, too. Doctor’s notes. Progress reports from school. A note in his own handwriting, the pencil smeared in certain places. It’s impossible to read. There isn’t a date on it. 

 

Then there are more notes, in a different handwriting. About therapy lessons with Slenderman (that’s disgusting), and a suicide attempt. Some notes on the various fights the two of us have gotten into. Multiple accounts of self-harm. 

 

So that’s why EJ was peculiar about me touching his wrists. 

 

There are three more photos - a beautiful woman with dark skin and blue eyes, a slightly-yellowed mugshot of a man who looks like he’s been on every drug known to mankind, and a cute little boy with dark hair. There’s something scribbled at the bottom of each photo. 

 

_ Margaret García-Hodek ‘12 / Peter Hodek ‘96 / Liu Huang-Hodek ‘08 _

 

Jeff’s family. 

 

I stare at the picture of his mother. She’s really pretty - straight dark hair, freckles, slightly tilted eyes. Her and Jeff look almost identical.  _ Would _ , too, if his jaw were slightly softer and his face wasn’t so scarred. I wonder if he knows Slenderman has this photo. 

 

I gently remove all three pictures and slip them into my pocket. 

 

I quickly read the rest of the page. There are multiple names scribbled onto the paper, the majority of them crossed out with a blue marker. Amaya, Anna, Luke, Noel. There’s one written in the corner and circled. Mireya Martinez. Underneath it is an address with a red question mark above it. 

 

Frowning, I gently tear the paper out and slip it into my jacket. 

 

Margaret’s name isn’t crossed off, and neither is Mireya’s. I wonder if Jeff knows his mother is still alive. And who Mireya is. He’s never mentioned her before. 

 

Well. He’s never mentioned  _ anything  _ before. Lucky him. I had my whole life story posted on the news and social media when the investigators tied me to the death of those three men. I was already at the mansion at the time, so it’s not like I could’ve just waltzed in and said they were trying to rape me. I doubt they would have believed me anyways. Not with my record of self-inflicted violence. 

 

I leave Slenderman’s office after a few more minutes of searching with the notes on Jeff’s family and the pictures. 

 

It’s late. I can hear everyone in the dining room, including Slenderman. Everything gets loud when he’s in there. Everyone talks over each other, trying to pretend that he’s not in there watching like a creep. Tristan stayed to make sure he didn’t leave for his office. 

 

I sneak by the doorway and hurry to the wing Tristan’s room is on. Hopefully I won’t run into anyone in the hallway. People tend to be nosy, and if they find out I’ve been messing with Slender’s shit, I’m going to get a new asshole.

 

I hurry down the hallway and look around for Jeff’s door. He told me that he’d be in his room if I needed him (skipping dinner  _ again _ ), but failed to mention which room number his was. But I’m fairly certain it’s the painfully blank door at the end of the hallway. I thought the room was uninhabited. It’s kind of depressing, actually. 

 

Jeff answers after a few seconds of insistent knocking, looking like he’s ready to deck me in the jaw. His hair’s a mess. “ _ What _ ?” he snaps. 

 

“You told me to find you if I needed you, and I need you,” I tell him blankly. 

 

He rolls his eyes and jerks his door open just enough for me to slip into his room. 

 

The interior is just as sad as the door. There’s absolutely  _ nothing  _ in here. Some clothes, sure, and an unopened water bottle, but other than that, it’s like Jeff has been trying extra hard to make it look like he isn’t settling in anytime soon. How long has he been living here? Nine years?

 

“So . . .” I turn. “I went to Slenderman’s office.” 

 

“That was dumb,” Jeff says bluntly. 

 

“Yeah, I know, but he’s at dinner tonight, so I figured I might as well, you know?” I shrug. “But I need to tell you something.”

 

“How lovely. I need to tell you something too.” 

 

“Oh? A confession?” I grin. 

 

“No, actually, I talked to Sadie earlier,” Jeff says, leaning against the wall. I look around his room again. There has to be at least something in the closet. Porn magazines, some baseball cards,  _ something  _ personal. There’s absolutely no way that after nine years of living here, Jeff still doesn’t own anything. “She tells you to stop going down to the library.” 

 

I freeze. “How does she know about . . . the library?”

 

“She’s a ghost, dipshit. She can walk through walls.” Jeff rolls his eyes. “She told me that Slenderman’s connected to the mansion . . . Spiritually, or something. He can see everything. So he’s going to find out you’re going down there and he’s going to be pissed. She wouldn’t tell me why.” Holy shit  _ I was right? _

 

I try to think. I haven’t found anything that Slenderman would be necessarily  _ angry  _ about me finding, have I? “Well, there are some books made of human skin and a chest full of  gold and shit. I found a neat sword that glows.” 

 

Jeff perks up. “Anthropodermic bibliopegy?” 

 

“So you’re a weird fucker too.” 

 

“I want to see.” 

 

I start to mention the papers I’d found, but I see the excited glint in his eyes and shut my mouth. I don’t want to ruin the mood, especially since I don’t think I’ve seen him this enthused about anything since that one time he ripped a pedophile’s eyes out. I’ll tell him about it later. 

 

Jeff follows me to the old library, not saying anything the entire walk there. I go the newer route, through the old courtyard and up the marble stairs. I can tell he’s in surprise at the state of the older parts of the mansion. As if they were simply left there. 

 

“I’m surprised it took human-bound books to get you in a good mood,” I tell him as he climbs through a hole in the wall. I’m also surprised at how easily he can slip through tight spaces. I’m only slightly smaller than him and can’t even squeeze through an open door without blundering everywhere. 

 

Jeff gives a half-hearted shrug. “Tristan told me about it. Sounds interesting.” 

 

“Of course Tristan would know.” 

 

“She’s into some weird shit.” Jeff straightens and brushes cobwebs from his face. “You know, researching vore and obsessing over Ted Bundy. Guess it’s a coping mechanism or something.” 

 

“What the hell’s she coping with?” I wheeze. Cannibalism issues? Alcoholism? 

 

“Well, her girlfriend  _ did _ move away without telling her, and fuck knows she’s probably dead or something,” he mutters. “And she’s certain it had something to do with her parents finding out the two of them were together. Some religious cult, I think.” 

 

I remember Tristan mentioning that, right before she insinuated that I had something going on with Jeff, and then dragging my ass through the mansion to nearly get killed in a forest. Fun times. “Her name was Peggy.” 

 

“Right.” Jeff walks behind me as I lead him up the winding marble staircase. “She said she couldn’t give Peggy a ring, since she wasn’t allowed to wear them or something, so she gave her a necklace instead. Like one of those split ones. She wears the other half. Talks to it sometimes. It’s weird.” 

 

_ Split necklace. _

 

I stop, and Jeff bumps into my back. 

 

_ The necklace. _ The necklace I saw hanging from the tree in the forest. It was one of those halved ones, wasn’t it? I’m certain it was. 

 

Jeff twirls me around. “You good?” 

 

“Uh - yes. Library.” 

 

So now I’ve got to break possibly devastating news to the only two people in this place that somewhat tolerate my existence. Wonderful.  

 

We walk to the library in silence, with my mind racing a thousand thoughts a second. Jeff strays off a couple of times to touch things - old paintings, banisters, whatever else catches his attention. It takes me longer than usual to get to the library.

 

It’s definitely obvious I haven’t been down here in a while. There’s already a thick layer of dust covering everything, including the sword on the table that remains in the sheath. Jeff stops and stares around the cavernous room in awe while I walk over to the sword. The runes begin to glow. 

 

“So this place is evil?” Jeff muses. “It just seems like a really sad library to me.” 

 

“It doesn’t feel like anything down here,” I tell him. “You know that odd feeling you get when you’re in the mansion? Like you’re being watched? Doesn’t feel like that in here.” 

 

“Ah. Maybe that’s why I suddenly feel like I’m going to throw up.” Jeff walks over to me with a sour expression, waving his arm around his face. “Fuck, it’s dusty.” 

 

“I felt like I was gonna puke the first time I came down here.” I frown. “Maybe Slenderman can’t see us down here. It’s veiled, or something.” Then I remember the runes that are etched into the walls and the sword. And the books . . . “There are books in a runic language that I don’t recognize, maybe they can be used as protection sigils or something. See?” I point up to the runes on the ceiling. “They’re only in this room.” 

 

“Hm. Magic. Great.” Jeff seems unimpressed. 

 

“Do you want to see the human books?” 

 

“ _ Yes _ .” 

 

While Jeff flips through the skin-bound books with a too-eager expression, I go back to the sword and  _ Mors Gloria. _ I’d left off on - shit, what was it? Evocation? Something about calling demons. And the sword had glowed. And a while ago I’d researched Behemoths.

 

I’d forgotten that’s what EJ once called me. A Behemoth. 

 

A slip up, perhaps. 

  
“Hey, Jeff, know anything about a Behemoth?” I ask over my shoulder.

 

A pause. Then, “Yeah, a little. Why?” 

 

“EJ called me one. I just remembered.” 

 

“Uh, well, I heard that Behemoths were things Slenderman created, and they looked like demons, so I don’t think you’re one of them,” he calls over. His voice is farther away. Must be going through the books. “Slenderman told me about them, I think? They used magic like you do, but that’s about it.” 

 

Definitely a slip up, then. 

 

“Plus, they’re all gone now,” he adds. “Except for . . . what was their name? Zalgo? I never paid any attention, but Dickwad up there said about them being scattered. Don’t know what that means.” 

 

Zalgo. Doesn’t ring a bell. 

 

“Anything about a glowing sword?” I run my fingers over the sheath, smiling when the runes pick up their red glow. “And runes?” 

 

“Do I look like I sit around listening to fairy tales?” Jeff’s voice is closer now, and I jump and spin around. He sits on the arm of the couch and crosses his arms. “He’s never mentioned a sword, or runes. Sadie might know something. We could ask her.” 

 

We. The idea of us actually (maybe) getting along for once makes me giddy. For some reason. 

 

“I wonder how it senses people,” I muse, leaning against the table the sword rests on. The glow stops. “I’m pretty sure that’s what makes it glow. When you get close to it.” 

 

Jeff takes a step towards the sword. Nothing happens.

 

“Good guess, buckeroo, but I don’t think that’s what makes it glow,” he says dryly, poking the scabbard. 

 

I frown and step forward. The runes flicker to life. “So . . . Only me?” 

 

“Don’t get feeling special, now.” 

 

“I’m not parading this thing around the mansion.” 

 

Jeff rolls his eyes. “It’s probably your magic.” 

 

“Maybe. Oh, watch this.” I unbuckle the clasps and pull the sword out of the sheath. The mist returns, spilling around the table and onto the ground. Jeff steps back when ash falls on his foot. “It leaves ash behind. Funny, yeah? Cause I sometimes, y’know, do the same thing?” 

 

“And you somehow didn’t connect your magic to this thing?” Jeff says incredulously. “How big of a dumbass are you?” 

 

I shrug and run my finger down the blade, tracing the runes etched into the metal. “What, it’s a fancy glowing sword in a mansion that doesn’t  _ actually _ exist, with a bunch of ghosts and serial killers and a centuries-old cryptid, do you really think I cared about that?” 

 

“Should have.” 

 

“I’m not -  _ ow _ !” I drop the sword and bring my hand up. A few drops of blood drop from my finger and splash onto the blade, onto the runes, and they glow in response. 

 

“Did you really just fucking cut yourself?” Jeff snickers. 

 

“Oh, don’t make fun of me,” I snap at him. “I don’t -  _ FUCK! _ ” 

 

The pain returns, this time so vivid and burning that I gag and almost puke. I see the blurry outline of Jeff jumping up, reaching for me, and then a bright light. The pain shoots up my arms, and it feels like I’m being burned. 

 

Then it goes away, and I’m left standing halfway into a crouch, gripping my wrist. 

 

“Holy fuck.” Jeff’s eyes are wide. He’s staring at my arm. “What’d you do?” 

 

I look down. The runes from the blade are seared on the inside of my arm. 

 

I rub at them. A little soreness. They aren’t coming off. 

 

“Oh, fuck.” I scratch at the runes again. “Oh, fuck oh fuck oh fuck.” 

 

“Well, now you’ve got a fancy tattoo,” Jeff quips. “Good going, Aeron.” 

 

“I didn’t - what the fuck!” I shout angrily. “I don’t want a tattoo! It’s not even that cool!” 

 

Jeff starts cracking up. “Aeron, you  _ bonded _ . How sweet. You’ve got a sword now.” 

 

“You shut up!” I yell, still scratching feverishly at my arm. “I’ll burn you worse than last time, I swear to God.” 

 

While I rant, Jeff clambers around me and heads towards the markings on the wall and the chest full of gold and whatnot. “Hey, what’s this stuff?” 

 

“ _ Dude _ , I’m panicking over here and you’re interested in a wall carving?!”

 

Jeff picks up the crown. “Is there a key to this thing?” 

 

“I DON’T KNOW!” 

 

He presses the crown against the hole. It fits perfectly. 

 

My jaw drops. 

 

The wall shifts, groans, and with a shower of dust and rocks, begins to move. Jeff stands back and watches with a somewhat glazed expression on his face. As the rock wall moves up, leading into a dark and narrow passageway, he turns around and looks at me. “I don’t know why I did that.” 

 

“Oh my God.” I straighten up, staring at the tunnel. “Oh my actual God. I’ve been down here for over a year and I never - and you just -  _ what the fuck _ ?” 

 

“I mean, Sadie told me about a tunnel,” he explains, glancing back towards the passage. “And I just - I saw the crown, and I did a lot of research on French nobility in school because I was weird, and it didn’t really  _ look _ like an actual crown, and then I saw the hole, and -” 

 

“You’re saying it’s a fake crown?” 

 

“It’s a key, I guess?” 

 

“Oh my God.” I walk over to him, still idly rubbing my arm, and squint into the tunnel. “What do you think it leads to?” 

 

Jeff thinks for a moment, and then perks up. “Slenderman’s secret sex dungeon.” 

 

“Wow. I hate you.” 

 

“Come on.” He slaps my arm and jumps in front of me. “I want to see how many dildos he has.” 

 

“Absolutely not. I’m not interested in Slenderman’s dildos.” 

 

Jeff steps in front of the opening, grins, and holds his hand out. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this excited about something.“C’mon. I want to see what the motherfucker’s hiding.” 

 

I feel heat crawling up my neck. 

 

“Aeron.” Jeff wiggles his fingers. “C’mon. We can deal with your neat tattoo later. Right now it’s adventure time.” 

 

“It’s . . . really dark,” I say worriedly, glancing behind him into the gaping darkness of the tunnel. Even with the light from the library, I can’t see more than a couple feet past the opening. It doesn’t seem to bother Jeff. He simply jumps back into the darkness, immediately half obscured by shadow. 

 

“You’ve got torch arms,” he muses. “Come  _ on _ .” 

 

I think briefly back to the documents I’d found, and how crushed Jeff’s going to be when I tell him about it. But part of me - the stupid part - wants to keep seeing him smile. 

 

So I take his hand and let him jerk me into the darkness. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

After what feels like hours of walking through the darkest tunnel I’ve ever seen in my life, Jeff finally stops, and I bump into his back. He’s been holding my hand this entire time. I don’t think I’d manage to keep calm if we somehow got separated. I don’t think the tunnel is a single path, either, because we’ve hit forks multiple times now.

 

“What?” I breathe. The air down here is suffocating, and I’m aware that we’ve slowly been going downhill. I wonder how deep we are underground. And how long it’s been since someone went down this tunnel. 

 

I hear Jeff shifting. “I hear . . . water, I think.” 

 

The two of us go quiet. It  _ does  _ sound like the rush of a waterfall, a long ways off. Above us. 

 

I squeeze his fingers. “We should go back.” 

 

“Bold words coming from the king of bad decisions.” 

 

“Jeff, I’m serious.” I can’t stop thinking about the document. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe Jeff already knows, and he’s just never cared enough to talk about it. But maybe he doesn’t. “There’s - there’s something I -” 

 

“Look - stairs?” Jeff’s tugging me behind him again. I hear him kick something, and then we’re going up a flight of stairs. “Can you - light? Please?” 

 

I wince. “I don’t want to burn you again.”

 

“You can’t possibly fuck my arms up any more than they already are,” he snorts. I trip over a step and grab onto his forearm so I don’t fall backwards. “Looks like fucking hodgepodge at this point.” 

 

I remember the scars on my back. 

 

“Well, I mean . . .” I bat a cobweb out of my face. Jeff’s been taking the majority of the blows, but every once in a while I’ll manage to snag one. “Looking like a mangled slab of clay isn’t  _ that  _ bad. Gives you a certain charm.”  

 

We reach the top of the stairs, and Jeff cautiously begins walking forwards. My hand brushes against the walls. Damp and mossy, and water drips from the ceiling onto my face every few seconds. We must be around a water source. 

 

“So, uh . . .” How do I ask? Just bring up his mother? His family? I don’t know what his relationship with his father - Peter - was, and I don’t assume it was very good, if I’m going by the fact that the only picture of his father in his folder was a mugshot. “Where’d you . . . grow up?” 

 

Jeff stops walking. I almost smack into him again. “I’m sorry, what?” 

 

“It’s awkward, so I just thought . . .” 

 

“You thought you’d ask an awkward question to get rid of the awkwardness,” Jeff says dryly. I cringe. “I was born in New Mexico, moved to Florida, then North Carolina, then Louisiana, then Alabama, and then to Arizona. Peter moved a lot.” 

 

I pretend to be surprised. “Peter? Who’s that?” 

 

“My dad. Piece of shit, don’t wanna talk about it.” 

 

“Yeah. In jail a lot?” Oh, fuck. Are you kidding me? 

 

Jeff lets go of my hand. I hear him taking a few steps back. “How’d you know about that?” 

 

“Uhh . . . wild guess?” 

 

“Do you know about my father?” Jeff asks sharply. Oh, please don’t get pissed off. Not in a tight dark space. If he runs off, we’re both fucked. 

 

“I . . . uh . . . Slenderman told me,” I lie. “When I went to his office. He just mentioned your . . . dad. Said you were gonna be . . . like him . . .”  _ Oh my God, Aeron, you fucking idiot. Stop talking. You’re making this worse. _

 

Jeff’s quiet for a while, and I wait with baited breath to hear his pissed response, until he calmly goes, “Nah. Peter was clever, that’s the only reason why he got away with so much shit. I’m a dumbass. Don’t think I can get as bad as him, not smart enough. Plus I don’t hit kids.”

 

“Huh. Was he abusive?” I ask. 

 

“Getting a bit personal there, kemosabe.” 

 

“Sorry.” 

 

Jeff nudges my hand again, and my chest tightens. “I think I see light, c’mon.” 

 

“What if this just leads to a linen closet?” I ask warily, letting Jeff tug me along. I squeeze his fingers and try to ignore how warm my face suddenly got. “Or a . . . sex dungeon. What if this actually leads to a sex dungeon?” 

 

“Then we have sex, obviously.” 

 

I scowl. 

 

Jeff eventually smacks into something solid, and we both step back a few paces. I reach forward and my fingers brush against something wooden. The rushing of water is louder now. The source must be nearby. There’s a single shred of light underneath what has to be a massive wooden door. 

 

“So it’s a door,” Jeff hums thoughtfully. “It’s probably locked.” 

 

I find the doorknob and turn. It’s locked. 

 

“Blast a hole through it,” he says brightly.

 

“I . . .” I sigh, swallowing my anxiety and channeling a small amount of magic into my arm. Enough that I can easily control, and not turn Jeff to a pile of ash. “Alright. Stand back.” 

 

Jeff shuffles past me, and I summon a flame into the palm of my hand. It illuminates the area we’re in. A brick tunnel, glistening with . . . slugs. 

 

“Oh, fuck, that’s a lot of slugs,” I hear Jeff say in awe behind me. 

 

“Slugs!” I say cheerfully, making my way over towards the wall. There has to be  _ thousands  _ of the fuckers, all going down the tunnel. There’s a thin layer of water on the ground, and the moisture in the air has the walls perpetually damp. I turn around to look at Jeff. 

 

His eyes are wide, and he winces when the light shines at him. His hair’s sticking to his face from the moisture. He gives me a shit-eating grin and a thumbs up. 

 

I quickly turn back around, swallowing a bit harder than necessary, and survey the door. 

 

It’s big. Probably three feet taller than me, reinforced with what looks like steel beams. A huge padlock hangs around the doorknob, and what once was a sign is nailed in the center. The ink is so faded and smeared that I can’t make out what it used to say. 

 

I press my palm against the center of the door and focus enough energy there to slowly sear a hole through the center of the door, bringing back in whatever heat manages to escape so I don’t catch the whole thing on fire. It takes all of my concentration, and once there’s a hole big enough for Jeff and I to squeeze through, I nearly topple over. 

 

“Cool.” Jeff steps up beside me and peers through the whole. “Looks like a room. There’s a waterfall. The . . . the water’s glowing.” 

 

I try to remember back to a science lesson. “Algae, maybe. Some types make water glow blue. Kind of like fireflies.” 

 

Jeff stands back up with a wide smile. “You first.” 

 

“I . . . Don’t think this is a good idea,” I say warily. 

 

“Me neither.” And then Jeff goes through the hole. 

 

I groan and follow him, extinguishing the fire so I can clamber through the hole I’ve made in the center of the door. Once I’m on the other side, I straighten up and glance around the room. It looks like what used to be a library or study; the ceiling is cavernous, and I see a smaller cave above where the waterfall comes from and spills into a small pond. 

 

“Wow,” Jeff breathes, his eyes reflecting the light from the pond. 

 

I quickly glance away when he turns to me. “It looks like it used to be a study or something,” he says. 

 

“Uh . . . yeah.” 

 

Jeff’s attention goes to something behind me, and he frowns and quickly walks past. I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I’d been holding and turn around. He’s walking towards a small platform on the other side of the pond, using the stepping stones. 

 

There’s a small stone structure on the platform. It looks like a doorway, or some sort of fancy arch. Jeff seems to recognize it. 

 

“What the fuck,” I hear him whisper, and then he puts his hand through the center. It disappears, and a soft ripple of blue waves across the space between the arches. This looks familiar - I’m certain that I’ve seen it somewhere. Newer design, but similar function. 

 

“Is that . . . one of Slenderman’s portal things?” I ask as I hop across the pond. Jeff pulls his hand back and cautiously sniffs it. “What’s it doing down here?” 

 

“It’s still active, too,” Jeff notes. “Must not have wanted anyone using it, I guess.” 

 

“Why wouldn’t he destroy it, then?” 

 

Jeff thinks for a moment, “Maybe . . . it’s a secret?” 

 

“Well, duh. I had to break a door to get in here.” I poke my hand through the portal, up to my elbow, and wave it around. Warm air greets me on the other side. “Maybe  _ this  _ is what leads to his sex dungeon.” 

 

Jeff snorts. “Slenderman wouldn’t go through all the trouble ripping the fabric of reality apart for a sex dungeon. Unless he’s into vore or something else weird. Do you think Slenderman might be a furry?” 

 

I picture it in my head: Slenderman wearing nothing but a thong, some wolf feet, cat ears, and a clip-on tail. I cringe. “I don’t want to think about that. Should we see where the portal goes?” 

 

“Hopefully not somewhere too busy,” Jeff muses. He wraps his fingers around mine. “On the count of three?” 

 

“Sure.” 

 

And then he pushes me into the portal.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a chapter that should be titled "what the fuck happened to the plot"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bad french.

Ringing. 

 

I feel like my head’s about to explode. 

 

Then I feel someone’s hand gripping mine.

 

I jerk back to reality, aware of a terrible pounding in my head and a voice. Everything sounds drowned-out, like I’m underwater. As my vision focuses, I see someone leaning over me. Pretty jaw. Pretty face, actually. 

 

“You have such lovely eyes,” I say sleepily. 

 

“Oh my God. You’ve lost your mind.” 

 

Jeff pulls me up and I wince at the pain in my shoulders. “Alright, why am I on the ground? What happened?” 

 

Jeff frowns. “Where the fuck are we? Game of Thrones?” 

 

“What do you mean?” I crack my eyes open further and look around. Jeff’s more or less straddling me in what looks to be the middle of a cobblestone street on a pretty deserted little road, with high walls and bushes. I can see a tower in the distance, a river cutting through the roads, and the style of architecture is . . . familiar. 

 

“Can you stand?” Jeff asks. His voice is hoarse. 

 

“When you get off my dick.” 

 

Jeff slides off me and the two of us stagger to our feet. Once we’re both grounded, we stare around at the surroundings. It’s  _ familiar _ , I don’t know why, but I can’t place where I’ve seen this before. The tower . . . The Thieves’ Tower. It used to be a prison, right? This street - half-timbered houses in the distance, all built close together - I  _ swear  _ I’ve been down here before with someone, carrying something . . . 

 

“I’ve . . . been here before,” I say slowly. 

 

Then I realize where we are. 

 

“Oh, no. Holy shit.” I twirl around in a panic. “Why does - why does he have a portal here?” 

 

“Where are we?” Jeff demands. 

 

“We’re - no, this isn’t right. This isn’t real.” I don’t realize how violently I’m scratching my arm until it starts to burn like hell. “There’s no way Slenderman would -” 

 

Jeff grabs my shoulders and stops me from spinning in circles. “ _ Where are we _ ?” 

 

“I was born here.” Jeff’s expression doesn’t change. I can feel ash falling down my face. “I - I - I -  _ no, _ this can’t - are you sure we aren’t sharing a dream? Are you seeing this? We’re in - we’re in the same street, right? We’re -” 

 

_ “Aeron _ .” Jeff’s hands go up to the sides of my jaw. “Calm down. Tell me where we are.” 

 

“Riquewihr. We’re in Riquewihr.” 

 

“Okay, and where is Riquewihr? Country-wise.” 

 

“France.” 

 

Jeff stares at me. 

 

“I . . . France,” I repeat, not sure if he heard me. “We’re in France.” 

 

Jeff blinks. Slowly. “Repeat that?” 

 

“We’re in France. Riquewihr is a village in France, it’s where . . .” I look past him to the tower. Past  _ that  _ is the farm. “It’s where I was born, and after I moved to the US I came back every summer, after . . . I stayed with my aunt.” I catch myself from talking about my father. But, shit, I haven’t spoken to Abrielle in how long? It’s got to be at least a few years. Her farm has to still be here. 

 

“I’m sorry, you lived in  _ France _ ?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

I hear footsteps, and an older woman turns to the corner and jumps a little when she notices us. That’s not really surprising - two guys, one with white hair and a weird tattoo and a traumatized expression and the other looking like he just got thrown around a meat grinder and then cried for three days, standing in the center of a road bickering in English. 

 

Just to be completely certain, I ask, “Uh, où sommes-nous?”

 

Jeff whips his head around to stare at me like I’ve just grown another set of eyes. 

 

The woman gives me a curious glance. “Riquewihr. Vous êtes perdu?”

 

“Uh . . . non. Merci.” I give her a short bow and as much of a charming smile as I can muster. “Tu connais Abrielle Lefèvre?” God. Shit. My French is so rusty. Abrielle used to have a ‘Pas d'anglais’ rule when I was over, thinking it’d make me bother to learn more French. Never worked. I’m going to apologize to her. 

 

The older woman doesn’t really seem to notice, or care. “Non, désolé.” 

 

“Ah. Merci beaucoup.” 

 

“Je t’en prie.” She nods and smiles, and then continues on her way. 

 

Jeff’s dead silent for a painfully long time. 

 

“You . . . speak French?” he says slowly. 

 

“I literally  _ just  _ told you I was born in France and partially grew up here, Jeffrey,” I say incredulously. “How did you not . . . click together that I was French?” 

 

“I told you I’m dumb!” he snaps. “You - you don’t  _ sound  _ French, and Aeron - that’s not a French name, is it?” 

 

“Do - do you really think my real name is Aeron?” 

 

Jeff stares at me for what has to be a couple minutes with the most betrayed expression I’ve ever seen in my life. 

 

“Explain,” he demands. 

 

“Alright, chill. My mom moved to the US with her parents when she was young, and her sister - my aunt, Abrielle -” I wince at my accent that comes out, “Abrielle was an adult, so she stayed. Wasn’t on good terms with my grandparents. Anyways, my mom met my dad, Sam, and he more or less immediately got her pregnant. My grandparents disowned her. Strict, religious pieces of shit.” 

 

Jeff nods. 

 

“Then Sam left. So my mom moved back to France to live with Abrielle. Then she had me. When I was three, she moved back to the States and moved in with a guy named Jonathan. Eventually got her citizenship, and I got mine. That clear things up?” 

 

Jeff blinks. “Your family is fucked up, Aeron.” 

 

“Abrielle lives on a farm here, right past the Thieves’ Tower,” I tell him. “I haven’t spoken to her in years, but she might still be here.” 

 

He quirks a brow. “And . . . she’s gonna be totally okay with you suddenly popping up? With white hair and freaky eyes? And me?” 

 

“She doesn’t talk to my mom, I can just say I’m visiting.” I shrug. “But I need to talk to her. Or at least see her. I mean, since I’ve left, maybe Anaïs -” I suddenly stop talking, and my voice cracks. I haven’t said my mom’s name out loud in years. I didn’t know it’d hurt that much. 

 

Jeff just stares. 

 

“Maybe my mom . . . started talking to her again,” I say quietly. 

 

Jeff stares up at the tower. “Why would Slenderman have a portal set up to your hometown?” 

 

“I . . . don’t know.” 

 

Jeff frowns and continues; “And he kept what I’m assuming is the only key to the door close by, in an area that’s accessible only from your tower. But I don’t think he would have meant for you to find this.” He turns to me, his expression unreadable. His voice is quiet when he speaks. “Do you think he . . . knew about you? Before?” 

 

I suddenly remember something about my mother - we lived alone for some time, before Jonathan, scraping up whatever we could in a cheap house in the forest. She used to stand on the porch early in the morning staring into the trees, knife in hand, and when I’d ask, she said she was . . . waiting. For the thin man. 

 

“Oh my God.” I clap a hand over my mouth, feeling sick. “I think she knew something. My mom.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

“She used to talk about a thin man, and stand outside in the mornings watching.” 

 

“Was your mom . . . like, was she alright? Mentally?” Jeff asks with a wince. “And are you  _ positive  _ she was referencing Slenderman? He can’t leave the forest, can he?” 

 

“I don’t know. But she’d - she’d talk about it all the time. Something about pieces.” 

 

“Pieces.” Jeff’s brows furrow. “Like . . . shards . . .” 

 

I don’t like that thought. 

 

“We should go find Abrielle, if she’s home,” I suggest wearily. “Maybe she knows something.” 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Abrielle’s house is exactly how I remember it. 

 

A small little cottage tucked on the hillside by the forest fringe, surrounded by fields of wheat, cows, and goats. We don’t run into very many people on the way there, mostly because I already know which roads to take to avoid seeing anyone, and it’s a significantly longer path, and Jeff and I are both exhausted by the time I make out the outline of her house. 

 

“There,” I say tiredly. 

 

“She lives in a hut,” Jeff says bluntly. 

 

“Yep. Pretty much.” 

 

God. I still remember having to sleep on a pile of furs and old quilts on the floor by the fire. Wonder if Lion is still alive. The two of us would always irritate her in the evening as she made dinner. She makes the best garbure.

 

My nerves start to come back as we near the door. The same thick wood that you have to nearly bodyslam to get to move. Jeff brushes his fingers against the leaves of the various vegetables growing in the front garden as we walk up to the stone steps. 

 

I stare at the door, and then turn to Jeff. “I don’t . . . I don’t have dust on my face, do I?” 

 

Jeff lifts a brow. “Does that really matter?” 

 

“I haven’t seen her in years, I don’t want to look like I just walked out of an explosion. Plus she’s going to yell at me for the tattoo anyways, might as well clean -” 

 

Jeff licks his finger and rubs the spot beneath my eyes. I shut up immediately. 

 

He draws back and looks me over. “Yeah, you look good.” 

 

_ Oh fuck. Holy shit.  _

 

“You too,” I blurt. 

 

Jeff stares at me, utterly unimpressed. 

 

Face burning, I turn away and quickly knock on the door. 

 

“Tiens bon!” I hear a familiar voice shouting from the other side and heavy footsteps. I immediately panic and go to run off the porch. Jeff grabs my arm and jerks me back onto the step. 

 

The door swings open, more fluidly than I ever remember it doing. 

 

Abrielle hasn’t changed much. A short and stocky woman with wild brown hair in curls that stick to her face. Tan skin, vibrant hazel eyes. That odd freckle right below her lip. Clothing that makes her look like a poor woman from the Middle Ages. And the look of utter and complete disappointment that never seems to leave. 

 

She stares at me, trying to recognize me and not quite . . . 

 

Then she gasps. “ _ Rowan _ ?” 

 

“Tata,” I say nervously. “Ça faisait longtemps.” 

 

Abrielle grabs her broom and whacks me in the arm with it. 

 

I was expecting that. 

 

“Enfoiré!” she snaps, voice rising to the familiar high-pitched shriek. “C'est de ta faute, espèce de merde!” 

 

I step back, dumbstruck. “Qu'est-ce que c'est?” 

 

“Tu sais exactement ce que tu as fait,” she snarls, and then a moment later grabs the front of my shirt and jerks me into her cottage, Jeff in tow. 

 

“ _ Tata _ ,” I say pleading, while she cusses me out in French, “Il parle pas français. En anglais, s'il vous plaît.” I motion towards Jeff, and Abrielle’s sharp eyes go to him. He suddenly looks like he’d rather be somewhere else. 

 

Abrielle scowls at me. Her French accent is thick. “You bring some tourist here? What is he, your man?” 

 

I try not to lose my cool. “Comment va maman?” 

 

Abrielle sighs, face suddenly heavy with sadness. “Son état s'améliore.” 

 

“She knows I left,” I offer. 

 

“She told me that much,” Abrielle says stiffly. “What the hell are you doing in France? Why’s your hair white? You look ridiculous, boy.” 

 

“I’m just . . . traveling,” I say. It’s not  _ technically  _ a lie. 

 

Abrielle snorts, placing her hands on her hips. “Et mon cul c’est du poulet.” 

 

I scowl. “I came here to ask you a question, not to get yelled at.” 

 

“Tu es une gamine,” she says coolly. 

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I shout, throwing my arms into the air. Jeff winces. “I came here for your help, you old hag! This is why I stopped coming around!” 

 

“You stopped coming around because you went to elope with some skinny twink you met at high school!” 

 

“I broke up with him!” 

 

“I stopped coming around because you made me sleep on the fucking floor!” I point to the old pile of furs that she had apparently never bothered to pick up. 

 

“I made you soup, you spoiled emo!” 

 

Jeff finally loses his patience. “So can we leave?” he cuts in sharply. Abrielle immediately goes silent, looking shocked that he’d dare interrupt her. “Or are you two going to keep screaming at each other?” 

 

“I’m not -” I groan, rubbing my eyes. “ _ Look _ . Tata, I need your help. It’s really important. Did maman ever tell you about a thin man?” 

 

Abrielle motions us to sit at the small wooden table in the kitchen. Everything’s connected - even the bed and bathrooms, which are only separated by hand sewn curtains and beads. God, she’s so weird. Now I know why mom always complained. 

 

“Sit down, you two,” she snaps when Jeff and I just stand at the table awkwardly. “I’ll get you something to eat, you’re a twig. What happened to your face?” She’s just now noticing Jeff’s bandage. 

 

“Aer -” Jeff cuts himself off and glances at me. “Rowan pushed me down a cliff.” 

 

“I did not!” 

 

Abrielle just snorts and starts bustling around the kitchen. I glare at Jeff as she speaks; “Your mother was batshit, dear. Used to dance around the halls of mama’s house and sing. Looked like a ghost, the poor girl. Of  _ course  _ she talked about a thin man.” 

 

Jeff and I perk up. 

 

“Did she ever . . . I dunno, go into detail?” I ask. 

 

“Oh, yes. All the time, especially when you were a baby.” Abrielle shakes her head with a chuckle. “The poor girl was  _ convinced  _ he loved her or some shit. Then  _ you _ came along. Looked nothing like Sam, so I thought she’d done gone and cheated on the bastard.” 

 

I freeze. 

 

I’d never heard about that before. 

 

“Wait, you mean . . .” I try to remember what Sam looked like - dark hair, brown eyes. He had darker skin, said he had some Native American roots or something, though his family swore they were all from Germany originally. Like it even mattered. “You think she  _ cheated _ on him? I never heard about that.” 

 

“Of course you wouldn’t, you idiot,” Abrielle grumbles. She slaps a plate of toast in front of Jeff and I. “You were born. She tried to put you up for adoption, said you were cursed. Tried getting the bitch on some Seroquel.” 

 

I run my hand through my hair, trying to process the information. Mom never said I was cursed. Not to my face, anyways, but she did go through odd periods where she’d look at me as if she didn’t recognize me. Maybe it was fear. Or hatred. Or both. “I . . . Did she . . . say she met up with the man?” 

 

“Uhh, used to run from home,” is all Abrielle says. “Now eat your toast, you skinny brat.” 

 

“Is Lion here?” I ask. 

 

“He’s out helping Alphonse herd the sheep,” she tells me, voice gentler. The only thing that can make her feel a shred of genuine affection is that dog. Then her voice gets sharper; “Now, tell me who convinced you to get those god-awful tattoos.” 

 

“Uhhhhhh . . . Jeff.” 

 

“Nope,” Jeff says, leaning back in his chair. “That was all on you, pal.” 

 

Abrielle snorts. “Treat him well, cher,” she says, looking at Jeff. “He doesn’t take care of himself.” 

 

“I do too!” I argue. 

 

“I had to teach you how to take a proper bath!” Abrielle turns back to Jeff. “You should have seen the amount of dandruff the boy had! You shake his hair and it snows.” 

 

“Oh, I’m certain it was horrendous,” Jeff says with a grin. “He forgets to eat all the time, we have to drag his ass into the dining hall.” 

 

“ _ Rowan _ !” she scolds, whacking me on the back of the head. “No wonder you’re so thin!” 

 

“Jeff,” I groan. “I thought you were on my side here, buddy.”

 

“Payback,” he says cheekily. He pokes at his bandage, but I know he’s really referring to his arms. Guess I do owe him this. 

 

Abrielle finally sits down at the table. She grabs Jeff’s untouched toast, and he doesn’t seem to mind. “I do hope you’re at least treating him right,” she grumbles at him. “Last boy got him suspended for three weeks.” 

 

Jeff blinks, surprised. “Oh, we’re not -” 

 

“That was  _ before  _ Eli, you hag,” I hiss. “And he had absolutely nothing to do with me breaking that jackass’s arm.” 

 

“You did  _ what _ ?” Jeff wheezes. 

 

“He pushed a child down the stairs,” Abrielle tells him solemnly. 

 

“He wasn’t a child!” I protest. “He was three years older than me!” 

 

“Shame on you,” Jeff pipes up. 

 

“Oh, you shut your mouth.” 

 

Jeff looks over at her wall clock and winces a bit. “We . . . should be going, shouldn’t we?” 

 

“Time’s different,” I chime. 

 

“Yeah, I know that, jackass.” 

 

Abrielle snorts. “Go off, do what you need to do. Use protection, kids.”

 

“We will,” I say cheerfully, throwing an evil look towards Jeff before he can say anything. “Thanks, Abrielle.” 

 

“Mhm. Now get out of my house.” 

 

I tug Jeff through the doorway and Abrielle slams it shut behind us. We stand there in silence for a few moments - with Abrielle no doubt likely watching us through the window - and I search Jeff’s face for any hint of what he’s thinking. Probably something along the lines of  _ oh my God, he’s insane, and so is his family. _ Lord. He should meet my mother. 

 

“That was . . . wow,” he finally says. 

 

“I cannot fucking believe you.” 

 

“What, did I embarrass you?” He grins. “Aw, poor baby.” 

 

“That’s my aunt, jackass!” I shove him. “You can’t say shit like that in front of my aunt, now she thinks we’re gonna go fuck in a motel somewhere!” 

 

“That was  _ your  _ doing, compañero,” Jeff muses as we walk away from the cottage and head towards where the portal is back to the manor. “So. Your real name is Rowan.” 

 

“Don’t laugh.” 

 

“It’s better than Aeron,” he says pleasantly. My face burns, and I internally curse at myself. “Can I call you that?” 

 

“Not . . . Not in front of everyone.” 

 

“Fair enough. What’s your full name?” 

 

I roll my eyes. “Rowan Adair Lefèvre.” 

 

Jeff repeats it. He absolutely butchers the pronunciation, and then snickers. “You sound French now.” 

 

“Yeah, that happens. It’ll go away.” 

 

“I like your name. It’s pretty. Why go by Aeron?” 

 

I remember the news event. When they put my face up there, and had my mom talk about my ‘disappearance.’ The fact that she was able to hide everything about me leaving from the police is just . . . Huh. Maybe it takes that much crazy to be able to pull some shit like that off. 

 

“I just . . . didn’t want everyone to know,” I say shyly. “And LJ suggested it, when we first met.” 

 

“Oh, yeah. I heard about that. You burned him?” Jeff and I turn onto the street that we’d come from, catching the gazes of a few surprised strangers. I ignore them. 

 

“I don’t really remember what happened,” I admit. “I just know that when he left me to say goodbye to my mother, the whole house was wrecked.” 

 

“Huh.” 

 

We reach the portal. It’s barely visible, only by the familiar outline of the arch can we actually recognize it. Jeff sticks his hand through to make sure it’s the right place, and then he turns to me with a shit-eating grin. “That was eventful. I’m exhausted.” 

 

“Yeah, me too. Down for a nap?” 

 

“Most definitely.” 

 

And he steps backwards into the portal. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> road trip of DOOM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm making up the town names. Any resemblance to actual towns , persons , or events is entirely accidental.

When I finally escape back to my room, Jeff and Aeron are both asleep on the bed.

 

I do a double-take, and then another. Jeff’s on his side with his arms hanging halfway off the side of the bed, as if he’d just collapsed the moment he walked through the door. Aeron’s lying almost completely on top of him.

 

There are markings on Aeron’s arm and a cut with crusted blood around it. Since when were either of those there?

 

“Fuckin’ Christ,” I mutter, collapsing into my desk chair. The two idiots probably did something stupid while I was gone. Aeron mentioned going to Slenderman’s office, and I don’t know what the hell Jeff was doing other than he pissed Zero and Puppet off (LJ enjoyed himself a little _too_ much telling me about it).

 

I managed to get the footage from the dash cam onto my laptop. Now I just have to watch it. I don’t really want to without Jeff and Aeron, but I also don’t have anything to do besides go through the stack of missing person reports on the desk.

 

Aeron grumbles something in his sleep, and a small ring of smoke poofs out from underneath his hand and settles a moment later. They’re both still wearing shoes. Must have collapsed the second they walked in. Wonder what they were up to.

 

I rummage around my closet as quietly as I can and jerk out a blanket that I’d bought myself for Christmas one year. I toss it over Jeff and Aeron and then settle back into my chair, sliding a couple of the papers towards me.

 

The dash cam can wait.

  


* * *

 

 

It doesn’t feel right waking up slowly.

 

I’m used to having that stupid woodpecker waking me up at the asscrack of dawn or having a nightmare about Sam, or Slenderman, or Abernathy.

 

Ugh. I’d almost managed to forget about that. Wonder if Abernathy was on the news - probably not, I’m certain it got glossed over like everything else weird that happens. There’s a reason we all haven’t gotten caught yet. Alex Jones would be on that like flies on shit.

 

I shift under the blanket and crack my eyes open.

 

No wonder I don’t hear the woodpecker. I’m in Tristan’s room.

 

I’m pressed between Jeff’s back and the wall, and for a moment I have to stop and think, _Wait, I’m wearing clothes, right?_ But then I remember the tattoo, the tunnel, and the wild and short-lived trip to France. And the realization that Slenderman may or may not have stalked my mother. And the terrifying fact that my mom may or may not have been a monster fucker.

 

I sit up a bit. Tristan’s not in here, but it looks like she left just recently. There’s a cup of something on the desk that’s still steaming, an open Word document on her laptop, and a pile of papers. I hope she didn’t walk in and think the wrong thing.

 

Then I remember the necklace, and my whole morning is ruined.

 

“Mornin’,” Tristan says cheerfully as she walks into the room. “Got you two some food. The two of you disappeared yesterday, figured you were dead in a ditch somewhere. Glad to see y’all still with us.”

 

“Ugh,” is all I’m capable of getting out. Tristan sets a few plates of food on the chest at the foot of the bed while I struggle to sit up and slap Jeff’s arm to wake him up. He grumbles and slaps me back.

 

“Asshole,” I mutter, finally managing to sit up without my head pounding.

 

“Nice tattoo,” I hear Tristan say amusedly.

 

Oh, right. I have to explain all of this to Tristan. “Yeah, uh, about that,” I say apologetically, “Jeff and I sort of took an international trip last night?”

 

Tristan’s smile wavers, but still remains unsettlingly cheerful. “Say that again?”

 

Jeff groans beside me. “That was real?”

 

I slump against the wall, rubbing my eyes. “Unfortunately, yes. You met my aunt.”

 

“Ah, yes. Lovely woman.”

 

Tristan’s face falls. “I didn’t get to meet your aunt.”

 

“You don’t want to.” I slide out of the bed and stumble a bit once I’m on solid ground. “We found one of -” I yawn - “Slenderman’s portals underneath -” another yawn - “the uh, the library. Old one. Took us to my hometown.”

 

“Your hometown? Where would that be?”

 

“Uh, France.”

 

Tristan seems surprised, though not as much as Jeff was. “You’re French?”

 

“Oui.”

 

She glances a few times between the two of us, looking like she doesn’t know what to say. “Have you two been doing drugs in my bedroom?”

 

“Yes, I took an acid tablet and magically got a tattoo,” I retort.

 

Jeff finally sits up with a groan. His hair is sticking up in every direction known to mankind. “He cut himself on a fancy sword.”

 

Tristan shakes her head. “A’ight. You two take a shower, you smell like sweat an’ wheat. I finally got the footage ready, we can watch it together. Also, you’re explainin’ the whole French thing.”

 

We’re both too tired to object. I take a shower first, bleary as hell and grateful that Tristan’s room has a bathroom connected to it, and stumble back out. Jeff comes back out wearing different clothes. Must have some over here. Maybe he’s been staying with her.

 

While Jeff and I eat the pancakes that she’d brought, Tristan opens a few files on her laptop, a news article, and then a video.

 

“What’s that?” I ask around a mouthful of pancake.

 

“The two officers were found yesterday, an’ the news media is goin’ batshit over it,” she tells me. “Says somethin’ ‘bout cult activity and cannibalism, possibly drugs an’ shit. They haven’t brought up the missin’ dash cam.”

 

“Hm. Have you watched it yet?” I ask.

 

“No, I haven’t.” Tristan moves her chair so all three of us can see the laptop screen and starts the video.

 

There’s about three minutes of regular footage - the officers receiving the call, heading towards the area where I’d been attacked. The footage is a little blurry, and constantly cuts out - probably due to the damage it suffered getting here. I can see the billows of smoke rising from the treelines, and then the scene right after Tristan and I fled - the road is cracked, blood is smeared across the pavement, and the deer is missing. I hear one of the officers curse.

 

Jeff shifts next to me.

 

Then the officers pull off at the side of the road, and one of them leaves the car to survey the damage. That’s when I see something flickering through the trees. Neither of the officers notice until the thin creature from before slowly drags itself out of the forest on the other side of the road, staring at the officer in the car.

 

It crawls towards the car at lightning speed, using its claws to pull itself along the ground. I’d burned its back legs.

 

“That’s not the one we saw, is it?” Tristan asks.

 

“No, it isn’t.” The one that had attacked me hadn’t been burned at all - so that means there were two? “Maybe they travel in packs.”

 

Jeff doesn’t seem to like that idea. He almost gags.

 

Tristan seems to consider it, and eventually makes a face similar to Jeff’s. “Don’t like that. Might’ve lived. Gone back to wherever there’s more of ‘em.”

 

“That’s worse,” Jeff groans.

 

The video continues for a short while; mostly just drowned-out screaming and blood splattering all over the ground outside as the other officer is attacked and presumably dragged off through the woods. Tristan skips through about two hours of footage until her and I are seen stumbling through the brush.

 

“Well, that’s all we’ve got. All other footage is corrupted or just useless.” Tristan skims through some of the film at the beginning, but there’s nothing of use. “Not much to go off of. We don’t even see where the first one crawled off to. So . . .” She swivels in her chair, fixing the two of us with a look. “You two numbnuts somehow went to _France_?”

 

“We found a portal,” I say lamely.

 

“Explain.”

 

So I do. I tell Tristan everything from me discovering the library, to the sword with the runes, everything I’ve managed to gather about Slenderman’s view of the forest and the possibility of the runes offering a shield against him, the tattoo, and Jeff opening the door that eventually led to the portal, and then the entire France trip and everything we learned from Abrielle.

 

At the end of the story, an hour has passed and Tristan is dumbfounded.

 

“I, uh, also have something to tell you. In private,” I add nervously. I’d left my jacket in here before I fucked off to France, so hopefully the necklace is still in the pocket.

 

Tristan follows me into the hallway, and I feel around the pockets for the necklace. I haven’t told Jeff about it, either. I hope Tristan doesn’t react too badly.

 

“So, uh, back at the forest, at the road,” I begin slowly, watching her face, “when we went further into the road, right as we were attacked, I found this hanging from a tree branch.” I pull the necklace out of my pocket and press it into her hands.

 

Tristan’s face remains painfully blank.

 

“I didn’t know what it was until Jeff mentioned you told him about a halved necklace,” I explain. “That you and Peggy both had one. I didn’t want to tell you sooner because . . . I didn’t feel like you’d take it well.”

 

She silently presses the necklace against her mouth, takes a shaky breath, and wipes all expression from her face. “Thank you.”

 

“You good?”

 

“I’m fine. I . . . I found a missin’ person report,” she admits. “It was her. She disappeared two years ago. So I . . searched up the case, an’ . . . It’s cold. They didn’t have any leads. She was pronounced dead last October.”

 

My heart drops. “I . . . I’m sorry.”

 

Tristan shrugs and clips the necklace around her neck. It falls in place with the one that’s already there. “I should’ve known. It wasn’t like her to leave without tellin’ me. But I’m gonna find her, dead or alive, so.”

 

I frown. “Why did those things have her necklace in the first place?”

 

“You’re sure it wasn’t already there?”

 

“I mean, it could’ve been, but . . .” Her eyes suddenly light up, and I stop talking.

 

“Think she’s connected to this somehow?” Tristan says excitedly. “Think she might be alive?”

 

“I don’t see why else her necklace would be there.”

 

“Fuck.” Tristan grins for a moment, and then it disappears. “What’re you gonna do about the whole Slenderman stalkin’ your mom thing?”

 

“Probably . . . nothing, I guess,” I admit. “I don’t know where to start. And I can’t do anything right now. Slender sees everything. He’ll find out eventually, and then he’ll probably kill me.” I think back to the address under Margaret’s name - maybe that’s a lead. It reminds me that I still have to tell Jeff his mother is alive. “I have to tell Jeff something too. Alone.”

 

“Tell him what?”

 

“I went through his personal files in Slender’s office,” I say. Now that I say it out loud, I realize how dumb it was. Probably should’ve looked at Tristan’s shit, too, just in case there was anything about Peggy in there. “It had his family tree. It said his mother’s likely alive, and there was an address circled.”

 

“Jeff said his family’s dead, though.”

 

“Exactly, that’s why I’m telling him. He might already know, he might not.” And if he doesn’t know, then it’s not going to be pleasant, because he’s either going to cry or go to punch Slenderman in the balls.

 

“If that doesn’t lead you anywhere, couldn’t you technically go back to France?” Tristan suggests. “Maybe your aunt knows some more.”

 

“She might. But this is more important.”

 

She nods. “Well, go ahead, then.”

 

Jeff’s shuffling through the papers on Tristan’s desk when I walk back into her room feeling worse than I did a few minutes ago. I have to quickly wipe ash from my eyes, take a deep breath, and steady myself in front of the door. “So, uh.”

 

Jeff looks at me.

 

“I need to tell you something too,” I say slowly, “I found something in Slenderman’s office. About you.”

 

“Okay.”

 

I step towards him, digging through my pockets for the papers. I pull out the photos of his family and hand them to him. He seems not to recognize them at first, until he sees the names scratched onto the bottom corners of the photos.

 

“Thought you might want these,” I say quietly.

 

Before Jeff can say anything, I hold the second paper up. “And this is, uh, a list of people in your family. It says Margaret Hodek is alive.”

 

Jeff is silent.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I apologize, “I just couldn’t find the right time, and -”

 

“What’s the address?” he asks. He sounds oddly distant.

 

“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to look at it yet.” Jeff slowly takes the paper from me. “Did you know?”

 

“No, I didn’t.” It seems like Jeff’s trying to keep himself from losing it. “He told me they were dead.”

 

“Peter’s the only one who’s supposedly dead,” I say.

 

“What’s the address?” he repeats.

 

“I don’t know. I can look.”

 

Jeff’s silent as I go to Tristan’s laptop and type the address into Chrome. It goes to a small town in Arizona - Wintercairn.

 

Jeff shifts. “We’re going, right?”

 

“What?”

 

“What else are we gonna do?”

 

“ _Well_ ,” Tristan says from the doorway, poking her head through, “I’ve got an idea.”

 

Jeff glares at her as she slips dramatically into the room and tosses her hands up; “I propose: You an’ Jeff go find Jeff’s mom, since it’s the only lead you two can follow. Whatever shit with Aeron’s mom and Slenderdick’s gonna have t’wait. While you two are doin’ that, I’ll look into this whole thing with Peggy and the - what’re we callin’ ‘em? Skinwalkers? Wendigos? Me at 2 a.m. lookin’ for apple juice?”

 

“Skinwalker,” I agree.

 

“A’ight. I’ll look into Peggy and the skinwalker deal, with the cults an’ all. You an’ Jeff go find Margaret in Arizona. Don’t tell anyone you’re goin’. I might mention it to LJ and Sadie - is that okay?”

 

I glance at Jeff. He refuses to meet my gaze.

 

“Sure,” I say slowly. “Don’t tell them exactly where we’re going, though.”

 

“There are some old cars in the garage, I think,” says Tristan. “The keys should still be there too.”

 

Once we’ve all agreed on a plan and method of communication (Tristan says she’ll snag some Chromebooks from Ben’s lab), Jeff and I go off to our rooms to gather whatever we think will be useful for the trip. It feels awkward going back to my tower alone.

 

My room hasn’t been disturbed. The lamps are off and the only light is whatever manages to slip through the curtains covering the large window. I can hear the woodpecker in the forest. The whole room seems depressed.

 

I shove what little clothing I have into my gym bag, along with some sunscreen, my notebook, a couple of hunting knives, and pumpkin-scented lotion for when I inevitably burn myself (or Jeff). As I go through my multiple bottles of lotion, I realize how much I seem to enjoy pumpkins and marshmallows. Is it fall yet? I’ve lost track of time.

 

I go back down to the library.

 

I hurry to gather _Mors Gloria_ , the sword, and whatever else I want to bring along. The tunnel is open. It feels oddly . . . empty. Sad, maybe.

 

I hurry back to Tristan’s room, where Jeff’s already waiting with a plaid bookbag that looks absolutely ancient. It’s torn and sewed in multiple places, and a countless number of patches and pins try (and fail) to cover up stains and rips.

 

Tristan comes in behind me holding two Chromebooks. “Alright,” she says, “one’s for me, an’ the other is for you two. Please don’t break it.”

 

“We’ll try,” I say dryly. Jeff takes the laptop and puts it into his bag. “So what happens if we get caught? I’m wanted, aren’t I?”

 

Tristan’s face goes blank. She must have forgotten about that.

 

“Uh, shit,” she grumbles. “Go to Claire’s. Get your ears pierced.”

 

I frown. “I don’t think -”

 

“Just don’t get caught.”

 

“Easier said than done,” Jeff chimes. “We look like a freak show.”

 

Tristan steps back a few paces and surveys us. “Well, Jeff just looks like he got tossed under a car. Cover up your arms an’ you’ll be fine. Your hair’s long enough to cover the scars on your neck. Aeron’s just emo.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Jeff rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty certain our pictures were everywhere.”

 

She shakes her head. “Doubt that. It’s been over five years since Jeff appeared on the news an’ Aeron looks totally different.”

 

Jeff leans over to me; “I’m legally dead.”

 

“Really? That’s awesome.”

 

“A’ight, I think this is gonna work,” Tristan says cheerfully. “Just gotta leave before Slenderman realizes anythin’. Are you two gonna . . . die on the trip? Should I be worried?”

 

“I still have my license,” I say. “It shouldn’t be expired.”

 

“Yes, but you look different,” Jeff says.

 

“You’re also wanted,” Tristan adds.

 

I shrug. “Let’s just hope we don’t get pulled over, then.”

 

“Dios mío,” Jeff mutters under his breath.

 

Jeff and I gather some more things; toothbrushes, a few thin blankets, and a couple of pillows. Jeff goes down to the kitchen to snag some food for us while Tristan sits on her desk with her laptop on her legs. “Everything You Need for Your Badass Road Trip: 53 Item Packing List.”

 

“We’re _not_ bringing that much shit,” Jeff snaps once he returns to the bedroom.

 

“It’s only two states over,” I agree.

 

“Spare tire,” Tristan reads anyways.

 

“We’ll find one,” Jeff says darkly. I look at him uneasily.

 

“License, registration, and manual.”

 

“Well, we have at least one of those,” I say hopefully.

 

“Fluids in case the car overheats.”

 

Jeff thinks for a moment; “Does blood work?”

 

“Phone charger.”

 

“Do we look like the type of people to have phones?” he snaps.

 

“I have an iPod,” I say. Jeff glares at me.

 

Once Tristan has finished reading her incredibly annoying list, we’re all tasked with sneaking down to the garage. Jeff somehow knows exactly where the keys are (which is strange, considering Tristan’s in the garage the most and even _she_ wasn’t sure), and we go around back. There are multiple cars out there, some of them halfway sunken in the ground.

 

Jeff goes through the key ring. The only one that isn’t too sunken beyond saving is parked right at the gravel roadway that leads to the front of the mansion and out of the forest. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

 

We aren’t even sure what model or brand the truck is - it looks like a mix between a Ford F-150 and a 1980’s Dodge. It looks like something you’d see in a junkyard that you immediately associate with tetanus. It’s a hideous shade of washed-out red, so rusted that it’s probably going to fall apart the moment we touch it.

 

Jeff tosses the keys onto the ground and walks away while Tristan starts laughing.

 

Keeping my distaste internal, I walk around to the back of the truck. “Is the license plate good?”

 

“We have fake ones in the garage,” Tristan says through giggles.

 

“It’s endearing,” I say, wincing. “We’ll have to stop at a gas station and get a map.”

 

Jeff gently opens the door, and once we’re certain the truck isn’t going to fall apart, he throws the hood up and starts messing around. When Tristan and I both give him a confused look, he says, “Dad was a mechanic.”

 

“Could’ve asked me,” Tristan says glumly. Oh, right, I forgot - Tristan’s a mechanic. She built her first motorcycle. It’s probably around here somewhere.

 

Jeff goes back and forth between the front of the truck and the steering wheel. Eventually, with some of Tristan’s help, they get it running. Tristan turns to look at us. “I have no fuckin’ clue what model this is. Y’all got money?”

 

“Yes,” Jeff says. I don’t want to know where he gets his paychecks from.

 

“I still have everything from my last job,” I say. Abernathy. A shitshow. I’m surprised Slender even paid me after I burned the whole place down. I’d felt too guilty to do anything with the money, so I still have the $5,000 I was paid.

 

“Who’s driving?” Tristan asks.

 

“Is this automatic or manual?” Jeff responds, looking dead inside.

 

“Manual,” she says.

 

“Aeron can drive.”

 

“You can’t drive a stick?” I snicker.

 

“Oh, I can drive a stick,” Jeff says ominously. Tristan and I glance at each other.

 

While Jeff is finishing up his job of making sure the truck doesn’t stop in the middle of the road and get us killed, Tristan claps me on the back and gives a solemn nod. “You’re both gonna die.”

 

“Yeah, no shit.”

 

“Good luck, though, kid.”

 

I glance back at Jeff as he gets the engine running again and shouts something in Spanish. A week ago we were trying to kill each other and now we’re going on a deadly road trip to find his previously assumed dead mother two states away. Fantastic.

 

“Thanks,” I say slowly, “I’m gonna need it.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a blast to the past /yeET

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keep in mind that all towns/cities are made up (mostly 'cause i'm too lazy to do proper research on an actual town)

**June 2nd, 2006**

 

**Barmwich, Pennsylvania**

  
  


Peggy Steinberg stops on the third step of 203 Braswell Boulevard and nervously glances up at the stained glass window. There are multiple windchimes hanging from the porch beams, jars upon jars of plants, and a black cat with wide, unsettling eyes perched on the porch railing watching her. The house gives her chills. 

 

She adjusts her blouse, takes a deep breath, and knocks three times on the huge oak door. 

 

Silence follows, and in the corner of her eye, Peggy can see the black cat stretching out on the railing. It almost looks amused. Her palms begin sweating, and she fidgets and adjusts her shirt. She perks up when she hears heavy footsteps coming down the hall, utters a quick prayer, and squares her shoulders before the door swings open. 

 

A teenage girl opens the door. Peggy’s chest tightens as she takes in the girl’s ragged appearance; combat boots, cuffed and torn jeans, a bomber jacket with several pins and patches, and a shaved head. Oh, the things her mother would say. Peggy shifts uncomfortably, suddenly feeling like prey under the girl’s brutal gaze. 

 

“H . . . Hello,” Peggy begins weakly, “My name is Peggy Steinberg. My family and I are visiting everyone in the neighborhood with an important message, and -” 

 

The door slams in her face. 

 

Peggy jumps back in shock, and then takes a moment to recollect herself. She glances back towards the van in the center of the cul-de-sac, at her parents who are at another house, and then turns back around to face the door. 

 

The cat  _ mrrows _ . It sounds like the thing is mocking her. Peggy glares at it before taking a shaky breath and knocking on the door again. 

 

The footsteps are heavier this time, and Peggy steps back on instinct. She flinches when the door swings open, and the girl’s eyes are dark pools of anger. 

 

“ _ What _ ?” she snarls. Peggy freezes, mind raking over the details that have been drilled into her day after day. She takes another breath, fingers trembling as she grips her Bible. 

 

“I, uh - I’m Peggy Steinberg, and my - my family and I are sharing the blessings of God’s kingdom, and I hoped you would be willing to listen to His -” 

 

“Look, kiddo.” The girl leans against the doorway and scowls. “I’m not interested in your cult of a religion, a’ight? An’ we also got a sign right fuckin’ here that says no soliciting.” 

 

Peggy’s face burns. She hadn’t noticed the sign. 

 

“I . . . didn’t - I’m so sorry,” she stammers. 

 

The girl watches her with a predatory interest, and then she snorts and shifts her stance so that she’s standing directly in front of Peggy, several inches taller. And intimidating. “You’re a Jehovah’s Witness?” 

 

“I’m . . . A witness of Jehovah, yes,” Peggy corrects under her breath. Should she try again? “Is . . . is it religion you’re not interested in? Or the Bible?” 

 

The girl squeezes the bridge of her nose. “I’m two seconds from kickin’ your ass off my porch.” 

 

Peggy’s mind races for something -  _ anything  _ \- to say. She’d been told to keep talking until the door was slammed in her face, but - she doesn’t want that, and -

 

“I like your cat,” she blurts. 

 

The girl’s arm falls and she stares at her incredulously. “You . . . like my cat?” 

 

“Uh, yes. What’s . . . what’s her name?” 

 

“He.” 

 

“Oh, sorry. What’s his name?” 

 

She’s met with a sly grin and half-lidded eyes. “Lucifer.” 

 

“Oh.”  _ Lord, give me strength.  _

 

The girl leans back against the doorway, and the cat - Lucifer - runs past her legs into the house. Peggy resists the urge to peek in. “I, uh . . .” She doesn’t know what to say. Peggy shifts. “Thank you for not . . . slamming the door again.” 

 

A quirked brow. “Don’t like loud noises? Or are you abused?” 

 

“E-Excuse me?” 

 

She shrugs dismissively. “Just wonderin’. I’m Tristan Barsotti, by the way.” 

 

“Peggy.” 

 

“You’ve already said that.” 

 

“Oh. Right. I’m sorry.”  _ Why is she suddenly so nervous? _

 

Tristan rolls her eyes, and before Peggy can bolt off the porch, she nudges her shoulder to get her attention. Her eyes are softer. And pretty. “Hey. You don’t have to live like this. There’s always other options.” 

 

“Pardon?” 

 

Tristan shrugs. “There’s more to this - existence - than knockin’ door to door and tryin’ to gain the favor of a god who demands worship every second of your life.” 

 

Peggy blinks. 

 

“Just a thought. Have a nice day.” And Tristan steps back into the house and shuts the door. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

**June 4th, 2006**

  
  


Peggy knocks three times on the door. 

 

She’s not surprised when it swings open fast enough to nearly knock her over, and she doesn’t bother hiding the wince that follows the familiar intense gaze and the abrupt movement. 

 

Tristan recognizes her and groans. “Goddamn it. I said I -” 

 

“I’m not here to witness,” Peggy cuts in weakly. “I just . . . want to talk.”

 

Tristan seems genuinely surprised. Peggy’s heart slows a bit when the girl’s face softens, and she says, “Uh, you mean, on the porch, or do you wanna come inside?” 

 

“Uhm . . . I can . . . come inside, if that’s alright.” 

 

Tristan watches her face carefully for a few more seconds, and then says, “I’m not gonna have a mob of angry cultists on my porch for lettin’ you come inside, am I?” 

 

“We’re not cultists,” Peggy protests. “And no, you shouldn’t. I told my parents I was . . . out witnessing to the neighbors.” 

 

Tristan pulls the door open further and quickly ushers Peggy inside, snickering. “Oh, the pretty Jehovah lady lied to her parents? What would God say?” 

 

Peggy ignores how her face warms up. “I’ve already prayed and requested forgiveness,” she says stiffly. Tristan just snorts in response. 

 

Once inside, Tristan shuts the door behind them, and Peggy stares in wonder at the interior of the house. It’s an ancient building, and it definitely shows from the peeling wallpaper and creaky floors. There’s a massive room with a chandelier hanging, casting shadows about the hallway. She can see the kitchen, a wooden staircase, a few doors that must lead to closets or other rooms, and the living room. 

 

A fireplace is roaring in the living room that Tristan leads her into. There are multiple candles set about, a small glass vase burning wax cubes that have the room smelling pleasantly of spiced vanilla, and crystals set about the windowsills. There are also bones set up everywhere - on shelves, hanging from the ceiling with odd markings carved into them, in a glass display case along with several other oddities. 

 

She stares at a stuffed fox on top of a massive wooden cabinet. There are more crystals, plants  _ everywhere _ , books strewn about. She glances at the cover of one. They are mostly about herbs, types of insects, witchcraft, and astrology. 

 

“Do you live here alone?” Peggy asks, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. 

 

“Pfft, nah.” Tristan starts picking up some of the books, seemingly unbothered about the mess. “Just my grandma an’ mom.” 

 

“What about your father?” 

 

“He’s dead.” Tristan stands back up with a wry grin. “An’ before you ask: I don’t believe in an afterlife. So don’t say anythin’ ‘bout him goin’ to heaven.” 

 

Peggy glances anxiously towards the books and bones. “Is this why you were so opposed to hearing about God’s message?” 

 

“Ugh. Don’t word it like that.” Tristan shudders. “An’ no, before you ask - I can tell you’re thinkin’ it - I don’t worship Satan. I was raised Wiccan.” 

 

Peggy awkwardly glances towards the couch - it’s kind of hideous, really. A wooden frame, low to the ground, with cushions a nasty shade of dark yellow and orange. Lucifer is curled up on one side, napping. “I’ve . . . never heard that term before.” 

 

Tristan gestures towards the hallway, and Peggy follows her towards the kitchen as she explains; “It’s just a religion based on Pagan beliefs. Everyone practices differently.”

 

“Do Wiccans like crystals?” 

 

Tristan snorts. “So you’ve noticed. My mom refuses to stop buyin’ ‘em. An’ yes, we use crystals.” 

 

Peggy wants to hear more about it, but she keeps her mouth shut. She shouldn’t be so interested in hearing about witchcraft - no wonder this house gave her chills. It’s probably infested with demons. God, she was an idiot for coming here. 

 

They enter the kitchen, which is just as spacious as the rest of the house. The cabinets are an odd shade of greenish-brown, with old and cracked marble tops. The kitchen island is a clutter of papers and bowls. On the counters are jars upon jars of herbs. Bundles of what looks to be sage and other plants hang from the racks above the sink. It smells like the forest. The windows are open, and multiple plants sit in the light from outside. It’s . . . homely. 

 

Tristan rummages through an old and squeaky cabinet, pulls out a few bags of tea and a brass kettle, and turns on the stove. “D’you like green tea? Herbal tea? We’ve got all different kinds.” 

 

Peggy knows she shouldn’t accept the offer, but she does anyways. “Do . . . you have peppermint?” 

 

Tristan holds up a finger, fishes around in the cabinet, and then perks up and pulls out a box of peppermint tea. “Yep!”

 

Peggy holds back a smile as she watches Tristan bounce around the kitchen, seeming much more lively than she was a few minutes ago. And especially a few days ago - Peggy doesn’t know why she even let this girl intimidate her in the first place. She’s very friendly. Misled and probably very impure, but friendly. 

 

She notices a small flag hanging from the window above the sink. It’s a simple rainbow pattern. She’s seen these before, though much bigger, hanging from porches. Father always scoffs and mutters about burning in the pits of hell, so she’s always assumed they stood for something evil. 

 

“What’s . . . that flag?” Peggy asks carefully. She doesn’t want to anger the girl. Or get cursed. Or punched in the nose. 

 

Tristan suddenly cringes. “You don’t know?” 

 

“No. I assumed it stood for something evil, because my father doesn’t seem to like them very much,” Peggy replies calmly. It doesn’t surprise her that Tristan would have an evil symbol in her house. She practices witchcraft, after all. And hangs bones from the ceiling. 

 

Tristan stares at her for a moment in bewilderment, and then starts laughing. “ _ Evil _ ? Well, I guess that makes since. Your pops prolly doesn’t like the whole ‘gays havin’ human rights’ thing. It’s a pride flag, kid.” 

 

“A . . . pride flag?” 

 

“I’m a homosexual.” Tristan twirls and gives a small bow. “Surprise!” 

 

Peggy shouldn’t be surprised. But she is. And she doesn’t know what to say. “Oh. Of course.” 

 

“Tone down that sarcasm,” Tristan says with a mischievous grin. “Come on, you’ve gotta be at least a  _ little  _ gay. You give the bi vibe.” 

 

“I don’t . . . Of course not!” Peggy protests, a bit harsher than she meant to. “I’m a child of God, not -” 

 

“Right, right, I forgot y’all are into the whole ‘Adam and Eve, not Adam an’ Steve’ thing,” Tristan grumbles. “Tea’s done.” She plonks what looks to be a homemade cup in front of Peggy, and then frowns. “You’re not gonna hate me for bein’ gay now, are you?” 

 

Peggy gingerly reaches for the cup and wraps her hands around it. “Of course not. You’re very pleasant company.” 

 

“We just met.” 

 

“I still like you,” Peggy says with a bright smile.

 

Tristan stares at her, unimpressed. “That’s gay.” 

 

Peggy chokes on her tea. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Peggy’s taken aback by Tristan’s room. 

 

It’s upstairs, in the attic, which is pretty much just the third floor of their unfairly massive house. Her legs are aching from the climb up the terrifyingly steep staircase, one of which went  _ around _ \- Peggy hasn’t seen a design like that except for in old movies. The house must be hundreds of years old. 

 

Tristan’s room is a little on the hot side, especially considering it’s the beginning of June. There’s another one of those pride flags, hanging from the slanted ceiling. There are posters everywhere, plants, crystals and jars. Bones and books. The bed is simply a mattress sitting on the floor right by the small circular window that overlooks the front yard. There are fairy lights hanging about the room. A dresser with peeling paint and stickers all over it. Multiple notebooks strewn about. An old-looking rug, an even older chest tucked into a crook in the wall. 

 

Peggy loves it. 

 

“Sorry it’s a bit stuffy in here.” Tristan plugs in a floor fan and Peggy’s grateful for the blast of cool air as it kicks on. Peggy wanders over to a small display case where there are multiple interesting types of rocks. She reads the labels - hematite, okenite, bismuth. 

 

“Do you use these?” Peggy asks, motioning towards the rocks. 

 

Tristan lifts the window open and glances towards the display case. “Oh, not really. Those are just for my rock collection. I do sometimes use hematite, but not that one.” 

 

“Ah. I see.” Peggy looks around at the oddities on the dresser. A jar of what looks like animal teeth, some candles, and more bones. A poster above the dresser lists multiple types of herbs, another for mushrooms, and one for butterflies. The attic is shaped oddly - like an L, with the door facing the window. There’s a couch on the other side with a poster above it: A world map that looks ancient. 

 

“I like your room,” Peggy says brightly, after a moment of consideration. “There’s so much to look at . . .” 

 

Tristan smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, it’s a bit cluttered. An’ dusty.” 

 

Peggy thinks for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of what she’s about to ask, and then decides that it’s probably about even; “Are . . . you on summer break?” 

 

“Yep. School let out a couple o’ weeks ago. Mom’s on a business trip and grandma’s with her sister in New York for the time bein’, so I’m home alone.” Tristan sprawls out on the mattress, leaning her head against the windowsill, and grins. “Why?” 

 

Peggy just shrugs nonchalantly, running her finger over a case with pinned insects on the wall. “Just wondering.” 

 

“Aw, you like me.” 

 

“You’re very interesting.” 

 

Tristan snorts. “Yeah, I guess. What ‘bout you, though? You’re not very interestin’, are you?” 

 

Peggy glances at herself in the body-length mirror propped against the corner serving as the junction between the two sides of the room. She  _ doesn’t  _ look like anything special; thin brown hair, pale skin, a simple white blouse and a skirt. She looks plain next to Tristan, who’s wearing plaid pants, a band shirt tucked into her jeans, and shoes that make her several inches taller. And her shaved head and earrings, and the jewelry she wears. 

 

She shifts, trying to press down her self-consciousness. “I don’t mind looking plain. Father says it . . . helps.”

 

“Helps?” Tristan rolls her eyes. “Lookin’ plain is one thing. Not takin’ care of yourself is another.” 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“Your hair’s thin, you look like you’re lackin’ vitamins, you’ve got dandruff, and you’re thin as hell,” Tristan lists out. “Are you not allowed to have a skin care routine? Or even . . . I don’t fuckin’ know. What’s your family’s opinions on beauty products? Lotion an’ whatnot.” 

 

Peggy joins Tristan on the mattress, leaning against the wall. She has to think for that one - she’s never really  _ asked  _ her father about it. She isn’t allowed to paint her nails or wear makeup. Beyond that, she isn’t sure. “I had an older sister who wore makeup once. She got . . .” She trails off for a moment, wondering how much she should share, “. . . punished for it.” 

 

Tristan frowns. “So if I rolled up at your house, wearin’ my eyeliner, what would your father say?” 

 

Peggy smiles wryly. “He’d be more concerned with your choice of clothing and hairstyle.” 

 

“Ah, right. Short hair’s for men only.” Tristan rolls her eyes. “Well, you can wear whatever the fuck you want at my house.” 

 

“I’d rather stay plain.” 

 

“Ain’t no men around here to lust after you.” Tristan tosses her arms up and leans her head out the window. “If you wanna dress up like a stripper, feel free. I’ve got some lacy shit around here.” 

 

Peggy tries to imagine herself wearing anything lacy and provocative. She cringes. 

 

Then her brain goes to what Tristan would look like. 

 

She shakes her head and slides over towards a speaker. “What’s this?” 

 

“Have you never seen a radio before?” Tristan chuckles. “You uh, go to the stations and listen to whatever’s on. Or put a CD in. Oh, fuck, are you even allowed to listen to music?” 

 

Peggy sits cross-legged on the floor and flips through Tristan’s CD case. She’s never heard of these groups before. The images on the CDs look . . . demonic. “No, only what we have at church. Gospel.” 

 

She’s certain that Tristan is rolling her eyes. “Put one in an’ see what you think. You won’t go to hell for it.” 

 

Peggy chooses one that says  _ Green Day _ \- a grenade can’t be too bad, can it? - and puts it into the radio. After a moment of silence, Tristan leans over and presses a few buttons. 

 

The music that blasts through the speakers would give Peggy’s mom a heart attack. 

 

She raises her brows and looks at Tristan. 

 

“American Idiot,” she says, as if that’s any explanation. 

 

Peggy sits back on the mattress and listens for a few seconds. She doesn’t understand the lyrics, but the music is nice. Maybe. Kind of. It makes her head throb - in a good way. Tristan digs around a small bag before pulling out a few tubes. Makeup. 

 

When Peggy bristles, Tristan rolls her eyes and says, “Calm down, Peg. It’s just moisturizer an’ shit. Your skin’s drier than the fuckin’ Aatacama. If I slap you it’s gonna snow.” 

 

“Does it smell?” 

 

“Nah, not too much. Your shitface of a dad shouldn’t notice.” Tristan sits in front of Peggy and pops the cap off. Peggy doesn’t comment on Tristan’s insult. Part of her agrees. “Damn, now that I’m up close . . . We might need a sponge.” 

 

“Why?” Peggy asks warily. 

 

Tristan leans back, eyes wide. “Wow. Your face is  _ dry _ .” 

 

“Is it really?” 

 

Tristan takes a black rag, wipes it down Peggy’s nose, and then shows her. There are multiple flakes on it. Peggy winces. “Oh.” 

 

“No problemo.” Tristan squirts some of the moisturizer onto her hand. “Yeah, quick question. Is everything you wear hand-me-down?” 

 

She blinks. 

 

“You look like an eighty year old woman,” Tristan elaborates. 

 

“They used to belong to my mother, yes.” And her grandmother. And probably her great-grandmother. Peggy won’t say that out loud, though. “My older sisters wear them usually, and then pass them down when they outgrow them.” 

 

“How many sisters do you have?” 

 

“Five. There are eleven of us.” 

 

Tristan drops the bottle and stares at her with comically wide eyes. Her jaw drops. “ _ Eleven _ of you?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

Tristan exhales sharply and starts putting the moisturizer on Peggy’s face. “Holy  _ fuck _ . Your mom must have her hands full. Where are you at? Oldest? Middle child?” 

 

“I’m around the middle,” she replies, closing her eyes when Tristan’s fingers travel up to her forehead. The moisturizer smells odd. Not unpleasant, but there’s definitely a scent. “We all live in the house together. Except for my oldest sister, Natalia. I don’t know where she is.” 

 

“She escaped,” Tristan says dryly. 

 

“Why do you not like my beliefs?” 

 

“‘Cause look at you!” Tristan exclaims. “You’re so thin I can see your spine. You aren’t healthy. You act like you’re abused, flinchin’ an’ all that. You can’t express any individuality without your father goin’ apeshit on you, yes?” 

 

“I mean . . .” Peggy trails off. 

 

“You’re obviously conflicted with somethin’, ‘cause you’re not brainwashed to the moon an’ back like most of the other Witnesses I’ve met,” Tristan adds. “Just don’t want you gettin’ hurt. You’re a nice kid. I like you, even if you’re weird.” 

 

Peggy opens her eyes when Tristan’s hand still on her jaw. Her heart is pounding in her throat, so loud she’s certain that Tristan can hear it. She swallows and averts her gaze. “I’m not brainwashed.” 

 

“You think Sky Daddy wants to punish you for wearin’ lipstick,” Tristan says matter-of-factly. 

 

“It’s . . . not mother-like.” 

 

“How old are you?” 

 

“Sixteen.” 

 

Tristan groans, and her hands drop to Peggy’s shoulders. She internally prays that Tristan keeps them there for a while longer. “ _ Mother-like _ . You’re sixteen. You don’t need to be worryin’ about what’s mother-like and what’s not. Do you think women can’t work, too?” 

 

“It’s not . . .” Peggy shuts her mouth. 

 

Tristan sighs. “It’s not a woman’s position, yes. Because all women do is have children and cook, yes?”

 

“That’s what . . . Father . . .” 

 

“He’s wrong.” Tristan tucks a strand of hair behind Peggy’s ear and then moves to fix her collar. “An’ he’s also a piece of shit.” 

 

Perhaps. It’s not like Peggy’s always necessarily liked her father. No one should hit children the way he does. Or yell. Or slam things. Or grab Mother’s hair and throw her against the floor when she talks back. Peggy doesn’t want to live like that when she gets married. 

 

She frowns at the prospect of marriage. She’s never put much thought into it, to be honest. The idea makes her stomach roll and her eyes burn. The idea of being with a man in general. 

 

She looks up at Tristan. “What’s marriage like?” 

 

“I’m sixteen and single, kiddo, I wouldn’t know,” Tristan says amusedly. “Why?” 

 

“Well . . .” Peggy glances back at the radio, still playing that music on a low volume. “We’re all expected to marry and have children. But I’ve never . . . really wanted to. Is there something wrong with me?” 

 

That gets Tristan’s attention. She sits upright. “Of course not.” 

 

Father would say otherwise, Peggy thinks dryly. Father would . . . say more than that, honestly. He’d probably immediately arrange a marriage, if that’s even legal at her age. And Mother wouldn’t stop him, either, she’d just hang back in the shadows and watch with her gaunt eyes. 

 

Tristan nudges her gently. “You don’t have to do anythin’ you don’t want to. Your body is yours, not anybody else’s.” 

 

It reminds Peggy of something her father said - that their bodies belonged to God. Such an odd way of thinking, that she’s here only by chance. She wonders how Tristan copes with it. “Do you think you’re here for a reason?” she asks wearily. 

 

Tristan shrugs. “Technically, we’re all here ‘cause someone was horny one time. But no, I don’t think I was  _ born  _ for any specific purpose - but that’s what makes all this shit fun. You get to decide your own purpose.” 

 

Peggy sits back and hums. Tristan continues, “I mean, you can disagree all you’d like, but life is short, an’ shit like that. If you wait around for some destiny or whatever to come to you, you’re gonna waste your life. You’ve gotta choose for yourself, you know? Find what you like doin’ and do it.” 

 

She frowns. 

 

Tristan notices her expression and grins. “D’you like that? The feeling of existential dread?” 

 

“No,” she groans. Tristan laughs. 

 

Peggy notices a cloud of dust from outside, and leans over to the window. A car is pulling into the driveway. At first glance it looks like her van, and her heart almost stops. But then a woman that’s definitely not her mother steps out. Tristan joins her by the window. 

 

“Mom’s home!” she says brightly. “C’mon, you’ll like her.” 

 

Tristan shuts off the radio and pulls Peggy down the two back-breaking sets of stairs. They bound into the massive hallway - Peggy thinks of it has a small vestibule - right as Tristan’s mother is shutting the door. 

 

“Hey!” Tristan says cheerfully, racing over to give her mother a hug. “This is Peggy.” 

 

Tristan’s mother has the same intense gaze, the same beautiful blue eyes. Her expression is warm. She smiles amicably at Peggy, an arm still around Tristan’s shoulders. “Is she your girlfriend?” she says teasingly. 

 

While Peggy blushes and fumbles for a response, Tristan just rolls her eyes. “Nah, she’s a . . . hey, you mind me tellin’?” 

 

“S-Sure,” Peggy grumbles. “I don’t mind.” 

 

“She’s a Jehovah’s Witness,” Tristan says. Not condescendingly, or anything - but there’s still a glint in Tristan’s mother’s eyes at the words. Peggy wonders what she’s thinking. “We’ve been hangin’ out. She’s cool.” 

 

“I’m glad you’re making friends!” Tristan’s mother says cheerily. Then she turns to Peggy and extends a hand. “I’m Amelia Barsotti. It’s nice to meet you.” 

 

“Y-You too,” Peggy stutters. 

 

Amelia places her bags down and stretches. “Are you two hungry?” 

 

“Yes,” Tristan says immediately. 

 

Amelia places a hand on Peggy’s back as they walk into the kitchen and leans in; “She can’t cook to save her life, poor girl. She’s probably been livin’ off ramen noodles and poptarts this whole time.” 

 

Peggy smiles, watching as Tristan hurriedly clears off a space on the kitchen island. “She makes good tea, though.” 

 

“Oh, yes, she does,” Amelia muses. “I’ll take credit for that one.” 

 

“I can hear you,” Tristan says hotly. 

 

“That’s the point, dear, it’s time to learn to boil water,” Amelia shoots back. 

 

“I can boil water!” 

 

“Lies. What is the boiling point?” 

 

“Uh. A hundred?” 

 

Amelia groans. “I cannot believe you are sixteen and don’t know this. It’s 212.” 

 

“I knew that,” Tristan says stubbornly. 

 

Peggy smiles wearily. “I think you may have been confusing fahrenheit with celsius, Tristan.” 

 

“See!” Tristan shouts at her mother. “I know  _ something _ !” 

 

“We live in the US!” 

 

“What if I move to Europe? Huh?” 

 

“You won’t even leave your room!” Amelia cuts off with laughter while Tristan glares at her. “She skipped science, can you tell?” she adds to Peggy, trying to smother her laughter behind a hand. Peggy notices she has a lot of rings similar in design to Tristan’s. 

 

“Peggy, back me up here,” Tristan whines. 

 

Peggy raises her hands in surrender. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Peggy leaves Tristan’s house later than she originally intended, but she’s glad she stayed. Amelia makes really good pasta, and Tristan explained to her how they use crystals (Peggy had been thinking about that all afternoon). 

 

She’s still thinking about how it felt when Tristan’s hands were on her face. Kind of similar to the existential dread, but in a good way. Tingly. 

 

She gets home late and sneaks through the back door. She jumps when she realizes her oldest brother’s sitting at the kitchen table. 

 

“Hey,” he greets sourly as she shuts the door behind her. 

 

“Hey, Caleb,” she greets. 

 

“Why’re you out so late?” Caleb rests a hand on his chin and smirks. 

 

“I was . . . witnessing,” Peggy says, hoping that he believes her. “I ended up talking to someone way too long. They invited me in, and I shared the Word.” Then she realizes she doesn’t have her Bible, so she fakes a gasp. “Oh, no. I left my Bible.” 

 

Caleb snorts. “Of course you did.” 

 

Peggy rubs her temple. “Darn. I’ll have to go get it tomorrow.” 

 

“At least it’s an opportunity to continue sharing the Word of God,” he says. 

 

“That is true.” Peggy forces a smile. “Is Mother awake? I wanted to ask her something.” 

 

He nods, and Peggy thanks him and hurries to her mother’s bedroom. It’s separate from Father’s room, mostly because Father’s insistent on “resisting temptation,” so Mother sleeps in the attic. It’s not as nice as Tristan’s room - not as homely, or warm, or full of interesting things. 

 

Peggy wishes she were still there. 

 

She climbs up the attic stairs and knocks on the door. “Mother? Are you awake? I wish to speak with you,” she says gently. 

 

A feeble voice comes from the other side; “Come on in.” 

 

The attic is cold. It doesn’t help with Mother’s illness, so Peggy brings her spare blankets whenever she can. Despite her youth, her mother acts much older, and can hardly walk on her own. The last few births had been rough on her. 

 

Peggy sits on the side of her bed and smiles as her mother takes her hand. “Sweetheart, you should be in bed,” she says delicately, eyes half-lidded and cloudy. “It’s late.” 

 

“I was . . . at someone’s house,” Peggy says carefully. 

 

Her mother smiles lopsidedly. “You don’t have to hide anything from me, sweetheart. Did you make a new friend?” 

 

“Yeah, I did. Her name is Tristan. I . . . stayed at her house all day,” Peggy admits. “We were witnessing the other day, and I went up to her door, and she just . . . said something that stuck with me. So I went back today. She’s very friendly.” 

 

Mrs. Steinberg smiles and closes her eyes. “Very nice. You smell nice.” 

 

“She . . . said my face was really dry, and gave me something to help.” 

 

“Oh, that was very nice of her.” 

 

Peggy wonders what her mother would say if she knew what Tristan looked like, or that she was attracted to girls, or that she practiced witchcraft. She doubts ‘nice’ would be anywhere near the list of things she’d call the girl. An abomination, a stain, a faggot would be among the nicer things. 

 

“Mother,” Peggy says slowly, “I want to ask you something. And I want you to let me finish before you respond.” 

 

“Of course, sweetie.” 

 

“I know I’m expected to find someone to marry when I’m eighteen,” she says carefully, “A nice, Godly man, like Father.” The thought of marrying  _ anyone  _ like her father wants to make her puke. “And have his children, and be loyal.”  _ Disgusting _ . “But . . . I don’t want that.” 

 

“Oh, sweetie.” Her mother’s skeletal hand comes up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hand is cold, not warm like Tristan’s. It doesn’t make her feel giddy inside. It makes her want to cringe away. “A woman’s natural purpose is to serve her husband - I assure you, you’ll find no amount of pleasure elsewhere. Marriage is a wonderful thing.” 

 

_ It doesn’t feel like it,  _ Peggy wants to shout. She wants to explain that she just - doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want to slave around for a man her whole life. But she doesn’t know the words to use that would make her mother just -  _ understand _ . 

 

Her mother doesn’t respond, and it takes Peggy a moment to realize that she’s fallen asleep. So she sighs, shuts off the lamp, and hurries off to her shared bedroom. 

 

She slips underneath the covers, not even bothering to change clothes, careful not to wake her sisters, and stares up at the ceiling. 

 

She thinks for way too long about how being so close to Tristan had made her feel. And the music. And the sense of security she felt in her home - of course, that was after she got used to seeing so many bones and books about witchcraft. She thinks about Tristan’s wonderful mother. How amazing her bedroom was. How soft Lucifer’s fur is. 

 

It surprises her when she starts to cry. 

 

Peggy wipes her eyes, stifling any noise with the back of her hand, and rolls over in bed to face the wall. She closes her eyes and throws the blanket over her head. At least she has an excuse to go back tomorrow. Maybe she’ll ask Tristan about how she feels. Tristan seems to know a lot more about emotions than she does. 

 

Yeah. That’s a good idea. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> peggy has some doubtful thoughts and tristan's tristan

**June 5th, 2006**

 

**Barmwich, Pennsylvania**

  
  


Peggy returns to the house the next morning, and as she steps onto the porch holding her Bible, she finds herself growing more and more uncharacteristically self-conscious. The door opens - noticeably much more gentler - as she’s in the middle of readjusting her shirt. She jumps when she’s met with Amelia’s wide grin and fierce eyes. 

 

“She’s back,” Amelia croons. “Come on in. I’ll make you some tea. Tristan’s in the shower.” 

 

Peggy puts her bag down next to Amelia’s and, after a moment of thought, puts the Bible down with her stuff. Amelia quirks a brow. “You brought your Bible?” 

 

“I needed an excuse for coming over,” Peggy explains. 

 

“Ooh, sneaky.” Amelia rubs her shoulder and starts going through their cabinets. It’s a bit tidier than yesterday. Amelia must have cleaned up. Peggy can only imagine the lecture Tristan probably got. The two seem to have a wonderful relationship. Amelia seems very accepting. 

 

“Would you like . . . well, we’re out of cereal.” Amelia’s voice jerks Peggy back to reality. “Damn. I’m gonna have to tell Tristan to learn how to cook.” 

 

“We’ve got . . . Oh!” Amelia pulls out a box. “Toaster Strudels.” 

 

“Toaster what?” 

 

Amelia holds up the box and grins. “You’ve never had one? Ooh, this is gonna be great. You’ll like it. You’re not allergic or intolerant to anythin’, are you?” 

 

“Only nuts.” 

 

“Sweet.” Amelia pops one into the toaster. “One or two?” 

 

“Just one,” Peggy says uncertainly. “I . . . get a little ill when I eat too early in the morning.” 

 

“Ah, alright. You don’t have to eat the whole thing if you don’t want to, dear,” Amelia adds. 

 

“Thank you,” Peggy says. Everything’s so much different over here. At least she won’t have to sneak and throw the rest away before it makes her sick. That’s a common occurrence at her house, and God forbid she gets caught doing it.

 

Tristan walks into the living room not soon after, wearing a plaid skirt and a white shirt tucked into it with The Creation of Adam printed in the center, the word  _ Michelangelo  _ above it. She’s wearing black, almost see-through tights with the same shoes from yesterday - she’d told Peggy that they’re called platforms. She’s also wearing a septum ring. She hadn’t been wearing one yesterday. 

 

Peggy’s mouth goes dry. 

 

“Oh hey Peg, wasn’t expectin’ to see you here,” Tristan says cheerily. “Ooh, Toaster Strudels?” 

 

“You get only two, because we’re almost out,” Amelia says sharply. “And they were originally my stress foods but  _ someone  _ refuses to eat the poptarts.” 

 

Tristan puts her hands up. “Hey, that’s ‘cause you always get the generic strawberry ones. S’mores is where it’s at.” 

 

“Do I look like the type of person to pay four bucks for a thing of s’mores poptarts?” 

 

Tristan gives her a deadpanned look. “You impulsively spent eighty bucks on crystals in one sittin’.” 

 

Amelia clicks her tongue. “Touché.” 

 

Peggy frowns. “Is that a thing people actually do? Make s’mores?” 

 

“You’ve never had s’mores?” Tristan says incredulously. 

 

She shrugs. “I thought that they were just . . . a movie thing.” 

 

“Oh my gods.” 

 

“We’ll have to make some,” Amelia says. “How late can you stay over?” 

 

Peggy thinks. Father hadn’t been too mad for her staying late last night, as long as she assured him she was witnessing. And she’s a good liar. Always has been. Living there, it’s a good skill to have. “Father shouldn’t mind, as long as I tell him I’m sharing the Word.” 

 

Amelia crosses her arms and leans against the counter. “Well, I know how you feel about lying, so if you’d like, you can still talk to me about God. So that it’s not, y’know, a  _ total _ lie.” 

 

Peggy flushes. “You don’t have to do that, Ms. Barsotti,” she says sheepishly. “I’m . . . I’m fine just talking to Tristan.” 

 

Tristan gives her a wide grin and a thumbs-up. 

 

Peggy isn’t certain what she was expecting out of the Toaster Strudel, but sweet Jesus on whole wheat bread - she loves it. She feels bad about not being able to finish it before she starts feeling a little ill, but Tristan leans over and shoves the rest into her mouth before Amelia can see. 

 

Amelia excuses herself to do yard work, and Tristan more or less drags Peggy back up to her room with Lucifer trailing behind them. 

 

Nothing’s changed from yesterday, besides another fan that’s out and some clothes strewn about the floor, as if Tristan were having a hard time choosing what to wear. Peggy considers her offer for a moment to wear whatever she wants. But she keeps quiet. 

 

“You came back,” Tristan says with a sly grin. “Good to know I’m irresistible.” 

 

Peggy wonders what Tristan would think if she knew how long she cried last night. The memory makes her stomach churn. “I just . . . needed an excuse for not having my Bible,” she mumbles. 

 

“That’s a lame excuse, needin’ an excuse,” Tristan chimes. 

 

Peggy shrugs. “And I wanted to see you again. I want to ask something.” 

 

“Hit me.” Tristan falls back onto the mattress. 

 

Peggy’s stomach rolls and her mouth goes dry. She tries not to stare at Tristan’s long legs and sits down in front of the mattress before she can get too dizzy with anxiety. She leans against the wall, takes a deep breath, and, “How did you know you were gay?” 

 

Tristan raises her eyebrows. “Excuse me?” 

 

“Was it . . . was it a decision? Father says that you choose to be homosexual, but -” Peggy cuts herself off as she realizes what she’s implying. But Tristan already knows. 

 

She leans forwards, eyes round. “Aww. Are you - sayin’ you  _ like  _ me?” 

 

“N-No.” Liar. “I’m just - curious.”  

 

Tristan looks unconvinced, but just leans back and crosses her arms behind her head on the windowsill. “It’s not a decision.”

 

“Then how did you know?”

 

Tristan shrugs. “Depends on who you are. But nah, not necessarily. For me, I just thought I was weird for never givin’ a shit about datin’ guys until I kissed a girl at summer camp. My mom’s real supportive, so it’s not like I had to necessarily come out. It was easier for me.” She scratches the side of her head and makes a face. “I dono, there’s not like, a  _ test  _ you take or anythin’. It’s not a decision. Just a part of you. A feelin’, maybe?” 

 

“What does it feel like?” 

 

She shrugs and leans back again. “Depends.” 

 

“What does it feel like to like someone?” 

 

Tristan thinks, searching for words, “Well. That depends, too, I guess. But it’s . . . fuzzy, I guess? Your heart gets all quick, palms gets sweaty, mouth gets dry. Keep thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em. I don’t know, I think you just  _ know _ .” 

 

Peggy shifts. “Does . . . does it hurt to suppress it?” 

 

“Nah, not really,” Tristan says. “But if you are gay, and you force yourself to marry a man or be with one, pretend to hate ‘em for the sake of religion - that’ll hurt. But I’m not gonna speak for you. Who knows, maybe you’re bi. And hey.” She sits up. “Don’t worry ‘bout God’s opinion, a’ight? This is you, not him.” 

 

She nods. It hurts her to do so. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Tristan takes her to a skate park to get her mind off of things. Peggy doesn’t know what she was expecting. A single ramp, maybe some teenagers with tattoos and cigarettes. Drugs - she doesn’t know of any, being as sheltered as she is, but her mother’s mentioned some overdoses that have been spreading across the town lately. 

 

What she sees when they walk up is a lot different than what she was expecting.

 

There are ramps, but they’re at what used to be a park at the fringe of the forest. Peggy can see a lot of kids there, mostly all enjoying the beginning of summer break. And some do have tattoos, and some are smoking - but surprisingly, she doesn’t mind as much as she would have. 

 

Maybe that’s because Tristan’s holding her hand, and she can’t be bothered to focus on anything but Tristan’s fingers wrapped around hers and her own pounding heart. 

 

Or, you know, maybe it’s the clothes. 

 

Tristan had taken a single look at her baggy hand-me-down blouse and skirt and immediately turned to dig through her dresser to find something for Peggy to wear, taking into consideration her unease to be seen in anything possibly labeled as provocative. She found some brownish plaid pants that go up halfway to her stomach, a simple white shirt to tuck in, and some white Vans. 

 

“Now you won’t get made fun of,” she’d said. 

 

Peggy had, upon glancing at herself in the mirror, realized that she likes wearing Tristan’s clothes. They smell like vanilla, and she’s got an interesting style - and, after Tristan had put her hair up in a bun and given her more moisturizer, Peggy liked the way she looked. Not vainly, more of an . . . appreciation. If that makes sense. 

 

Tristan holds her own skateboard, and there are multiple designs painted on it. Peggy hadn’t asked to see Tristan’s art, but  _ wow _ , the drawings on her skateboard are amazing. And it’s obvious she treats it with care. 

 

Peggy watches a couple of teenage boys as they go down the ramp, flip the boards, and go back up the other side. She cringes. “Do people ever fall?” 

 

“Oh, people fall all the time. It’s part of bein’ new,” says Tristan. “There’s a smaller ramp for beginners.” 

 

“How long have you been doing this?” Peggy asks. 

 

“Eh, six or seven years.” 

 

“Wow.” Peggy watches as a younger boy - maybe ten or eleven - trips over his board and falls into the grass. He doesn’t seem to mind. He gets back up, resituates his board, and tries again. “My parents would kill me if they knew I was here.” 

 

“I don’t think your parents would even recognize you,” Tristan says pointedly. She takes them to a smaller stretch of concrete and puts the board onto the concrete. “Also, after all this, I’m takin’ you to buy some new clothes. Yours are stretched far enough to fit ten people in them.” 

 

Peggy winces. “I would appreciate it, truly, but my parents . . .” 

 

Tristan shrugs. “You could keep ‘em at my house. I’ll get you a gym bag or somethin’.” 

 

“What were those guys smoking?” 

 

“Uh . . . weed?” 

 

Peggy blinks. 

 

“I’m not letting you smoke weed,” Tristan says thickly.

 

“I wasn’t going to ask.” 

 

“Mhm. Onto the board.” 

 

Peggy freezes, eyes going wide. “What?” 

 

“You heard me. I’m gonna teach you how to skate.” Tristan holds her hand out. “Here, just take my hand and step onto the board. Leave one foot on the ground.” 

 

“O-okay.” Peggy places her foot on the board and grips Tristan’s hand. She experimentally rolls it back and forth. 

 

“Alright. When you want to go, just push off with the foot on the ground and place it next to your other one. Don’t have them too close to each other or you might lose balance.” Tristan puts a hand on Peggy’s waist, and Peggy tries to control her breathing. 

 

“I’m going to hell,” she blurts a moment later. 

 

Tristan snorts. “Alright, chill. We’ll go get some ice cream later, it’ll be a date.”

 

Peggy follows Tristan’s instructions, and pushes off with her foot. She bends her knees a bit when the board moves, and she makes it halfway across the pavement before she hops off. 

 

Tristan gives her a short round of applause. “That was good. I ate shit the first time I got on a board.” 

 

“What does that mean?” 

 

“It means I fell off and wrecked my ankle on the pavement,” Tristan says dryly. “Whole thing flew out from under me. Worst part is for some damn reason I went  _ forwards _ .” 

 

Peggy snickers and sets the board back down. She repeats it a few more times until she doesn’t have to bend her legs anymore, and practically rolls in the praise Tristan gives her. She’s never had that kind of smile in her direction. She likes it. 

 

“This is fun,” she says, after Tristan teaches her how to switch directions. 

 

“You’re  _ really  _ good at this, are you sure you’ve never been on a board before?” Tristan grabs her hand as she hops off the board. Peggy continues holding her hand as Tristan kicks the board up and catches it. 

 

“I wouldn’t be allowed to,” Peggy says. Tristan pulls her back towards the old playground. The two of them get a couple of looks, but everyone quickly resumes ignoring them and doing whatever it is they were doing before. 

 

They end up on one of the old structures - a slide built into a wooden platform. Tristan dangles her legs off the side, resting her arms on a support beam a few inches from the platform. Peggy leans against the wall and watches a spider trying to build a web.

 

“This is a nice place to talk about feelings,” Tristan says after a few minutes of silence. 

 

Peggy internally flinches. She doesn’t like doing feelings. She’s too often punished for them; showing any distaste in the teachings of God, showing any signs of rebellion, not wanting to obey her Father, fighting back when he hits her, staring too long at a girl in public . . . 

 

“I . . . don’t really get feelings,” Peggy admits. Tristan glances in her direction. “I have a habit of keeping everything in.” 

 

Tristan stares off into the park. “You can’t keep livin’ like that.” 

 

“I know.” 

 

“Do you really want to leave?” Tristan turns to her. 

 

Peggy frowns. “Leave God or leave my family?” 

 

“Whichever.” 

 

“I’d never abandon God.” Peggy isn’t too sure about that, to be honest. “I’d leave my family, though.” She thinks for a moment, and then adds, “Without hesitation.” 

 

“Would you . . . like to stay with me?” 

 

Peggy wants with every cell in her body to be able to say yes. “I can’t. They’d . . . find me, and then . . . Then it’d be bad.”  _ And disobeying my parents? I’d rather get hit by a car.  _

 

“Well, you’re almost eighteen.” Tristan shrugs. “You can come live with me then. Right now I’m just your Bible buddy, a’ight? I’ll even grow my hair out for you, if it ensures your parents won’t forbid you from seeing me.” 

 

Peggy’s cheeks grow warm. She hopes that Tristan doesn’t notice. “You don’t have to do that for me.” 

 

“Well, I will anyways.” 

 

She picks at the laces on her shoes. The idea of staying with Tristan is - well, it sounds like the best thing in the world. But Tristan isn’t doing it because she necessarily  _ likes  _ likes Peggy. She’s worried about Peggy’s safety, and Peggy is too. But . . .

 

Peggy takes a deep breath. “I do think I like you.” 

 

Tristan looks at her again. It’s hard to read what she’s thinking. A painful silence passes for way too long, and then Tristan finally speaks. “We don’t really know each other.” 

 

“I just . . . need to know.” 

 

Tristan twirls around, sitting cross-legged in front of Peggy. “I’m really glad you’re not a total religious nut,” she says dryly. 

 

“I’m . . . flattered?” 

 

Tristan leans back on her arms. “So I’m not entirely sure what you’re askin’ me here.” 

 

“I’m not either,” Peggy admits. 

 

Tristan sits up again and suddenly shuffles closer, both hands moving to rest at the base of Peggy’s neck. Her heart immediately jumps into her throat, and she leans closer without thinking. Tristan’s hands trail up to her jaw, and she quirks a brow. “You weren’t lyin’ ‘bout the whole heart-in-your-throat thing. Your pulse is fuckin’  _ going _ .” 

 

Peggy ignores how her face burns. “What are you doing?” 

 

“You’re  _ really  _ bad at keepin’ your thoughts in,” Tristan chides lightly. 

 

“Am I?” 

 

“Mhm. Well, you wanted to see, right? And you like me.” 

 

“I -” 

 

A sudden banging makes both of them jump. Tristan’s hands fall from Peggy’s neck and she spins around, boot out and ready to kick the young man at the top of the slide in the face. She stops when she sees his face and groans, head knocking against the wooden wall of the structure. “ _ Fuck  _ you, Bel.” 

 

The young man - Bel - grins at them with wide, slightly psychopathic eyes. He’s missing a tooth on the side of his mouth, has a strange piercing on each side of his cheek - Peggy’s never seen that before - and wild black hair that falls in front of his eyes. 

 

He rolls into the building and sits up, hitting his head against the beams and not seeming to mind. “Joshua saw you with your friend and now he’s running his mouth,” he tells her, voice lilted and heavy with an accent Peggy doesn’t recognize. Does he have a tongue piercing? 

 

Tristan rolls her eyes. “I’m not interested in that dumbass’s drama.” 

 

“Ooh, you should hear what he’s saying, though, shit’s  _ ripe _ .” 

 

“The fuck does that mean?” 

 

Peggy backs up into the corner, watching them. She sees the bulge in Bel’s pocket, and a silvery handle peeking out. A knife. He continues talking to Tristan with those glinty amber eyes, saying something about Peggy and drugs. Tristan’s expression doesn’t change until he’s finished. 

 

She sighs and rubs her forehead. “I’m not wastin’ my time on him.” 

 

“Commendable.” 

 

Peggy jerks back to reality when Tristan takes her hand. “We’re goin’ out to Reagan’s.  _ Alone _ .” 

 

Bel’s wide, half-lidded grin isn’t as warm as Tristan’s. It sends a chill down Peggy’s spine. “Ooh. Fun.” 

 

“Don’t get into any fights with Josh,” Tristan adds after a moment of consideration. “And yes, we both see your knife. And  _ yes _ , I will not hesitate to tell police you’re armed if I find out you’re in the station again. Have a wonderful evenin’.” 

 

Peggy awkwardly waves to Bel as Tristan drags her away, and he simply grins, lifts two fingers to his face, and sticks his tongue through them. Then he motions to Tristan, and quickly drops his arm before she can turn around. 

 

It’s a short walk from the skate park to Reagan’s ice cream shop through the woods. Tristan talks idly about the forest and how many people were found dead there from heroin overdoses last summer. Peggy’s mind drifts back and forth between her parents, and what they’d think if they found out she was with Tristan. They’d probably roll over dead. But surely she’s not the only kid to sneak out, right? 

 

“Who’s Bel?” Peggy asks as they come up to the shop’s front door. The bell chimes as they walk in, and Peggy’s grateful for the blast of cold air from the AC unit above the door. 

 

Tristan shrugs. “He says his name is Belial. No one fuckin’ knows that much about ‘em, other than he’s weird and writes creepy poetry. Says he doesn’t have any parents. Saw ‘em sleepin’ out on a bench one night, so I guess that much is true.” 

 

“He’s homeless?” That would explain his scruffy, disheveled appearance. 

 

“He’s batshit crazy, too. Has some mental issues.” Tristan places her skateboard neatly against the wall and smiles brightly at the cashier. The woman waves back and greets her cheerfully. “Got into a fight . . . uh, last spring, I think? Stabbed a kid in the lung.” 

 

Peggy winces. 

 

Tristan taps on the glass and smiles at Peggy. “Odd question, but - you ever been here?” 

 

“Only a few times, with my family.” Packing that many children in here, along with her tall and broad father, had been a challenge.  _ Absolute hell _ , as Tristan would probably put it. “I never got anything, though. I was always too nervous.” 

 

Tristan doesn’t have an issue speaking for her. Peggy’s grateful. 

 

A couple minutes later they settle outside with two small paper bowls. Peggy notices at once that no one is staring at her like they normally do. A few sideways glances are thrown here and there, mostly at Tristan, but then the onlooker quickly goes back to not caring. 

 

Through a spoonful of mint chocolate chip, Tristan says, “Feels nice lookin’ somewhat normal, huh?” 

 

Peggy eyes her bowl - she’d gotten shy as soon as the cashier had turned her attention to her. She’d haphazardly poked the glass and left Tristan to try and understand what she was pointing at - in the end she’d gotten plain vanilla, and Tristan had urged her to “ _ at least get a toppin’, damn, you’re plain _ .” She went with a few cherries. 

 

Her hair is falling out of the bun already. Too thin to really hold up nice, Tristan had said. As Peggy’s grumbling and pulling one of her hairs off the back of her arm, Tristan talks enthusiastically; “So I’m gonna be graduatin’ from school next year - be a senior an’ all - and I’m kinda thinkin’ ‘bout movin’ to Seattle, y’know?” 

 

Peggy blinks. “That’s . . . a while away. Wouldn’t you prefer to stay with your mother? You have a nice house, and you seem to enjoy the neighborhood . . .” 

 

Tristan shrugs. “Well, yeah. But there’s not much here other than that.” 

 

“What would you do in Seattle?” 

 

Another shrug. It seems that Tristan doesn’t really know, but Peggy can’t be certain. It’s always hard to read her. “Model, I guess. Or become a world-renowned stripper.” Peggy chokes on her ice cream. “Or find a nice girl an’ settle in with a cat or two.” 

 

“That sounds nice,” Peggy says a bit too eagerly. She flinches and prays Tristan didn’t notice. She doesn’t appear to have. 

 

Tristan’s brows twitch. Darn. “Does it, now?” 

 

“I meant. Well.” 

 

Tristan finishes her ice cream and tosses the bowl into a trash can a few feet away. The spoon misses and falls onto the ground. “Would you come with me if I left?” she asks, halfway sliding out of her chair to toss the spoon back into the trash. 

 

“I don’t know about Seattle. But I’d . . . consider living with you,” Peggy says carefully. “At least until I can support myself financially.” 

 

Tristan whips back up, eyes wide. “Are you not allowed to work?” 

 

“N . . . No . . . ? Women don’t . . . work . . .” 

 

“I’m gonna whoop your dad’s ass.” 

 

“I’m . . . certain that would be interesting to witness.” Peggy quickly finishes her bowl. “My parents don’t agree with women in the workforce. I think it would be fun to work, though. Instead of . . . staying at home all day being quiet.” 

 

“Then fuck Seattle,” says Tristan, wrapping an arm around Peggy’s shoulders as the two toss away the rest of their trash. “I’ll stay here an’ help you get a job, and we can forget all about your shitty parents.” 

 

“And settle in with a cat or two?” Peggy says hopefully. 

 

A moment of surprise passes over Tristan’s face, but then she chuckles, shaking her head, and grins. 

 

“Yeah. Settle in with a cat or two.” 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short chapter in which shit begins hitting the ventilation unit

Sadie refuses to meet my gaze. 

 

She sits on her horribly threadbare mattress, in one of the coldest and bare rooms in the mansion. Icy stone for the floors and walls, a single window covered with ripped and stained curtains. Weeds growing through the cracks in the floor. Her bed is a simple cot in the corner, the walls are white and dirty, and the only real personality in the room is her bookshelf. It’s depressing. More depressing than Jeff’s room - I couldn’t stand being in there for more than twenty minutes before I told him to stay with me.

 

The ghost shifts a few times, undoubtedly reading my thoughts. I can tell that LJ is just as uncomfortable as her. He’s leaning halfway against the wall, halfway ready to bolt out of the room. He probably won’t get very far before he knocks his head against the doorframe. 

 

“Slenderman gave me this room,” Sadie says solemnly. A terrible attempt at breaking the awkward silence. It kind of makes sense that the thin bastard would give her the ugliest, coldest room so far away from everybody else. Sadie’s a ghost. She doesn’t feel cold, or hunger. But she still looks pathetic. And lonely. 

 

“Of course he did,” LJ mutters beneath his breath. “Look, we just need your help.” 

 

I told LJ everything. Interrupted his intense game of Exploding Kittens with Sally and dragged him off to my room to explain, show him the pictures and the necklace and the dash cam footage. He’d immediately suggested getting Sadie’s help. 

 

That’s harder than I thought it would be. 

 

“ _ Please _ ,” LJ tries again, when Sadie looks away and promptly gives us both the silent treatment. “Sadie, you’re the only one who can sneak into his office and get the rest of the papers. You can turn invisible. He won’t notice you.” 

 

“An’ Aeron told me how to use the runes to block his connection,” I add helpfully, struggling to keep my voice calm and not snap at her. 

 

Sadie keeps looking at her folded hands and shifts uncomfortably on the mattress. “Aeron found the portal. Slenderman already knows.” 

 

“D’you know why there was a gateway to Aeron’s hometown?” I ask her, as gently as possible. “Did Slenderman know his mother?”

 

“I don’t know.” 

 

LJ squares his jaw and takes a steadying breath. “Sadie, we need to know everything.”

 

She winces. “I really don’t know. But Slenderman had an interest in his mother before he was born. The only person that lived here back then was Mateo Tibot. But he’s gone. Not dead, but missing.” 

 

_ Missing _ . 

 

“Do you know of any more missin’ persons?” I ask.

 

“They’ve been everywhere,” she says sadly. LJ gives me a worried look. “So many innocent people gone. Dead.”  _ Dead. _ “Do you know what they all have in common?” 

 

Through gritted teeth, I say, “ _ What _ ?” 

 

“They’re all religious extremists.” Sadie finally looks up at me with her good eye. She looks exhausted. “I’ve been trying to help them for years, Tristan. I made it to Aeron in time, but that’s because he was different. But none of the others I could save.” 

 

“What do you mean . . . What do you mean you ‘made it in time?’”

 

“Slenderman doesn’t possess interest in just Aeron’s mother,” Sadie explains. Her voice rises in pitch, and she begins glancing around, as if worried she’s being watched. Which, technically, she is. “He didn’t care about Anaïs. He wanted Aeron, because . . . Well, you probably know why.” 

 

I grit my teeth and push back the burning feeling in my eyes. “Then why the fuck is Peggy gone?” 

 

“Not many of the missing persons were connected to Slenderman,” Sadie says. “Some were just . . . runaways, murder victims. The majority were, I mean. But some of them, the religious . . .” Her lips twitch. “Do you remember the skinwalker?” 

 

My blood goes cold at the memory - of course I remember that fucking thing. How could I forget? “Yes. What does that have to do with the missin’ persons?” I already know it’s connected somehow - most of them, the religious ones as Sadie had said, the ones in that cult - they’d all seen the skinwalkers before their disappearances. But how the fuck does that all tie back with Slenderman? 

 

Sadie’s expression is despairing. I realize what she says before she’s going to say it, and hope that I’m wrong. 

 

“They were human once,” she says, with an air of depressing finality.

 

I hear a sharp intake of breath from LJ, and my chest twists painfully as I realize what she’s saying. At what she’s implicating - and the fact that Peggy . . . 

 

LJ says, “You need to do this, Sadie.” 

 

Sadie scratches at her bandages and sighs. “I know.” 

 

“So Jeff and Aeron are on their way to Arizona,” LJ says slowly, “to find Jeff’s mother. And to get away from Slenderman. And we think that Slenderman  _ may  _ have banged Aeron’s mom?” 

 

“Yeah, that’s the part we’re not sure about.” And frankly, I don’t want to know. 

 

LJ makes a face. “Gross. Is he Aeron’s dad?” 

 

Even Sadie flinches at that thought. 

 

“I fuckin’ hope not.” I don’t think that’d make sense - I’ve seen pictures of Aeron’s dad, and they definitely share some similarities. Sharp jawline, sort of a button nose, similar mouths. But unfortunately, Aeron has mentioned before that Sam and Anaïs looked similar. So he could have gotten those traits from either one of them, technically. 

 

Ah, shit. 

 

“Well, Aeron’s got a face, for one,” I list out. “What sort of traits would show up if Slenderman was his father?” 

 

He shrugs and bounces back onto my bed. “I mean, he’s got the magic thing going on.” 

 

Sadie shakes her head. “Slenderman wouldn’t have the capability of reproducing with humans by biological means.” 

 

“By biological means? So there  _ are  _ means?” I say sharply. “So technically Slenderman  _ could  _ be Aeron’s father?” 

 

“I don't think so,” she says slowly. But she sounds uncertain. And that’s just fucking wonderful. “But the skinwalkers,” she adds, and LJ sighs. 

 

“I wonder if they keep their memories after they’re turned,” he grumbles. “We’re gonna need a whiteboard for this shit - okay, so we think that Aeron’s mom may have fucked Slenderman, or at least his mother  _ knew  _ about Slenderman, going by what his aunt said, right?” 

 

“That’s right,” I affirm. 

 

“And at the same time as all this shit’s going down, we’ve also got religious cults turning people into skinwalkers,” LJ continues. “When did Peggy go missing, and when was the first reported sighting of one of them?” 

 

Fuck. I remember it like yesterday - realizing that her family had packed up and left. I’d finally gone over to her house after days of her not coming over like she normally did, and . . . It was empty. I’d kill her father if I could. That piece of shit. 

 

“I’m not sure,” I say thickly. “The missin’ persons report is from 2008, but she could have been missin’ for fuck knows how long before that.” 

 

LJ hums thoughtfully - “Okay, so if . . . When did you join us, again?” 

 

“2010. So around nine years ago.” I remember that, too. I’d knocked out three teeth on the fall off the cliff near the mansion, hit my head on something hard, and nearly drowned before EJ pulled me out of the river. Got that mark on my hand and it fucked me up from there - started eating people. 

 

But hey, at least I haven’t been feeling any cannibalistic tendencies as of late.

 

“So we need the files,” LJ says finally. “And Sadie’s the only one who can get them. If Slenderman is keeping tabs on everyone as closely as Aeron says he is, he  _ should  _ have at least something on Aeron’s mother and Peggy, right?” 

 

“Maybe,” I say with a half-hearted shrug. We both turn to Sadie expectantly, and she stares at us blankly for a moment before shooting up from the cot. 

 

“I don’t want to help!” she yelps. “He’s going to be  _ mad _ , Jack!” 

 

“Would you rather innocent people get turned into naked, skinny mole rats?” 

 

“ _ Jack _ ,” Sadie whines. 

 

“Sadie,” he shoots back. 

 

I gently take a step forwards. “Sadie, you’re the only one who can get in there undetected. Doesn’t participatin’ in a revolution sound fun?” 

 

“Not if I die!” 

 

“You can’t die,” LJ says pointedly. 

 

Sadie glances back and forth between me and LJ, trying to get a sentence out, but in the end she just groans in frustration and gives up. “ _ Fine _ . What do you want me to get?” 

 

“All of the files on me, and anythin’ on Peggy Steinberg you find,” I say. Then, after a moment of thought, I add, “And everythin’ on Aeron.” 

 

“Tristan . . . ?” 

 

“Barsotti.” 

 

Sadie takes a shuddery breath. “Tristan Barsotti, Peggy Steinberg, and Rowan Lefèvre?” 

 

I pause. “Rowan Lefèvre? Is that his real name?” 

 

“Yes,” Sadie and LJ say in unison. 

 

“Huh.” 

 

LJ pushes her. “If Slenderman catches you, I’ll kick him in the nuts, okay?” he says hopefully. 

 

Sadie glares at him. “Jag hatar dig.” 

 

“I don’t speak Swedish, babe.” 

 

“ _ Fine _ ,” she grumbles. 

 

And then she’s gone. 

 

I blink, not realizing she’s gone at first until the faint outline of her body finally disappears and wisps of sparkling silver fall to the ground. A cold wind rushes through the room, and then it’s empty. 

 

I run a hand through my hair and lean against the wall. LJ collapses on the cot and glances out the window. “So you two are datin’ or somethin’?” I ask. LJ nods. “And you haven’t bothered askin’ her if she wants to stay with you? This is a prison cell.” 

 

“She doesn’t want to.” 

 

“She’s  _ Sadie _ . You’ve gotta ask fifty times.” 

 

“I have.” 

 

“Fifty-one times, then.” 

 

We wait in silence for a painfully long amount of time. It has to only be ten to twenty minutes, but it feels like an hour before the dust on the floor starts to agitate and then Sadie’s stepping through the wall, arms full of papers. She looks paler than normal, which is a feat since she’s nearly fucking transparent, and stumbles over to LJ, dropping the papers on the cot next to him. 

 

I blink, surprised. “That’s a  _ lot _ .” 

 

“I . . . He had files on Anaïs. Lots of them. And there are . . . some for Peggy as well,” Sadie says nervously. “Pictures, mostly. From Hoodie’s camera.” At the mention of Hoodie - Brian, whatever the fuck - I bristle. That bastard’s known for sneaking around taking pictures like some sort of stalkerish incel. 

 

“Brian and Tim usually gather the information, not Slenderman,” LJ says, already beginning to flip through one of Aeron’s numerous files. I’m actually shocked that there are so many - at least fifteen vanilla folders stacked to the brim with papers. Jeff has some files, too, along with one labeled Margaret Hodek. 

 

“Where d’you find these?” I ask brusquely, holding up Margaret’s folder. If Aeron had found one of his and Jeff’s, he would have taken Margaret’s too, right? 

 

Sadie shies behind LJ. “He had a box in the very corner, hidden.” 

 

I reach for Peggy’s folder and spill everything out onto the bed. 

 

My skin goes cold. 

 

There are countless pictures, and nearly all of them are of her. Some of them were taken years ago - her at church, with her parents. Pictures she posed for. Others are taken from behind objects, or at a distance, or are blurry with movement, like someone had been stalking her with a camera. Some look more like mugshots. She’s hardly recognizable in others, with blood and bruises all over her face. There are two other images - one of a tunnel and one of a pair of shorts. I recognize them. They used to be mine. 

 

“Oh my God,” I hear LJ whisper. 

 

Sadie eases out from behind him, her good eye raking over the images. A look of horror crosses her face. “Slenderman had Hoodie stalk her.” 

 

“There are dates,” LJ says, lifting up one of the Polaroids. He flips it around. July 12th, 2008. A month before she went missing. The picture is taken at a distance, and the angle is awkward. I can see Peggy in a forest, one that looks familiar, bending over something. 

 

I press down my anger and continue looking through her files. There are no school files or doctor’s notes. She was homeschooled. Her family didn’t believe in modern medicine. But there are shreds of paper, a ribbon, some pieces of fabric. Another picture paperclipped to a full sheet of paper in her own handwriting. 

 

The picture is in the same mugshot-like style as some of the others. But she looks different. Her eyes are dark, her jaw sharp. Her hair is shaved on one side and long on the other, looking bleached and thin. She has a scar on the side of her upper lip. She doesn’t look afraid. She looks pissed. Defiant. Nothing like the Peggy I remember. 

 

“What’s the date?” LJ asks with baited breath. 

 

I flip the picture over. 

 

March 1st, 2019. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jeff does ye olde scream and sleep

It’s official. I fucking hate roadtrips. 

 

Mom and I had never gone on any, besides maybe driving an hour and a half to town for supplies when we were out. That’s the most we ever traveled. But I like my Mom. Love her with every fiber of my being. Any time I got with her was time cherished. 

 

But Jeff? I want to stab him in the eyes. 

 

I wonder, if I smashed this glass Starbucks bottle against his head, I  _ wonder  _ what sound it would make. A thud, maybe? Would the bottle shatter? That would be lovely. A nice  _ thunk. _

 

“Turn that shit  _ off _ ,” I snarl, smacking his hand away from the radio for what feels like the fiftiest fucking time. He’s given up on getting the radio to pick up any AM stations, so now he’s messing with the wires, tuning voices in and out. At some point he connected to some Russian station before it nearly electrocuted him. 

 

Jeff retaliates by punching the steering wheel. I almost swerve off the road. 

 

“You asshat!” I shout, managing to stop myself from slamming on the brakes. “You’re gonna get us both killed!” 

 

Jeff just grumpily sits back in his seat. He’s hardly spoken since we left the manor. We’re not even out of Oregon yet and he’s already being a piece of shit. I forgot he has some sort of attention disorder. But what I  _ didn’t  _ forget was that he also has sensory issues, and I’ve threatened to run my hands down his jeans multiple times. 

 

“Do it, you coward,” is always his response, and then him screeching and pressing himself against the door when I reach over. 

 

About two hours from leaving the mansion, he pulls something out of his back. A box of fucking children’s Benadryl. 

 

“Jeff,” I warn. 

 

“I’m overdosing,” he says solemnly, and then chugs straight from the bottle. 

 

I slam on the brakes, wrench the bottle from his hands, and chuck it out the window. 

 

“You can’t overdose on fucking children’s Benadryl!” I shout. 

 

“Let me die!” he yells back. 

 

“ _ No! _ ” 

 

Then the radio abruptly turns on, and Jeff jumps, smacking his head against the back of the seat, as the wire he’s holding shocks him again. I clench the steering wheel and force myself to gently turn the radio off. 

 

“Jeff,” I say through gritted teeth, “I am going to stop at a pharmacy and buy you some Synaptol. Would you like that?”

 

“Yes,” he says glumly.  

 

I would jump over the fucking counter and steal a box of Adderall if I could, but Tristan had said specifically  _ not  _ to get in trouble with the law. 

 

I stop at the next pharmacy, right next to a gas station, and buy a box of Synaptol. Jeff’s drumming his fingers impatiently on the dashboard when I get back. 

 

“We need gas,” I add sharply, throwing the box at him. “I’m gonna drive across to the gas station and you’re gonna  _ stay put _ , got it?” 

 

“Got it,” he says affirmatively. 

 

Jeff doesn’t stay put. 

 

When I walk out of the gas station after paying and buying some water, I realize that Jeff isn’t in the truck. His door’s slightly open. It doesn’t look like anything’s missing, so I toss the water onto my seat and walk around the building. 

 

He’s puking near the bushes. 

 

“Oh, fuck me,” I groan. I lean against the building and watch him retch. “This is what you get for drinking half a bottle of Benadryl, you fucking idiot.” 

 

“Leave me and my questionable decisions alone,” he wheezes, and then gags on the last word and throws up again. Something about that isn’t right. He wouldn’t throw up from the Benadryl, would he? 

 

Once Jeff’s finished, he wipes his mouth off and shakily joins me by the truck. “You’re retarded,” I tell him plainly. I also may have spent way too much on gas, but you know.  Whatever. “And I got a small solar-powered fan while you were hacking your lungs up. Figured you might want it.” 

 

“I want nothing but the sweet oblivion of death.” 

 

“Well, that’s out of stock, so here’s your fan.” I pat the box invitingly. Jeff hops back into the truck and sinks down in his seat. “Have fun, Miss Sunshine.” 

 

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles. 

 

“Princess Peach?” 

 

“That’s worse. Go back to Miss Sunshine.” Jeff shuffles around in his bag and pulls out a weathered composition notebook. I watch as he flips through it. A bunch of . . . math, I think. And barely legible scribbles. 

 

Something in the bag catches my eye. “Is that a ukulele? And why is everything you own covered in stickers?” Inappropriate stickers too, I may add, but it’s not like the shit on my iPod is PG-13. 

 

“Yes, it’s a ukulele,” Jeff mutters. “And I like stickers. Can we go?” 

 

“What’s that?” I point.

 

“Tarot cards.” 

 

“You do that stuff?” 

 

“It’s fun.  _ Can we go _ ?” 

 

“Not until you take your medicine.” I wave the box of Synaptol. “I’m not having you jump out of this truck while we’re going down the highway.” 

 

Jeff reads the instructions, takes the recommended dosage, and then grumpily hands me back the box. He swallows the pills without any water. Fucking psychopath. 

 

I pull out of the gas station, and Jeff goes silent, too busy writing in his ancient-looking composition notebook to irritate me. Thank fucking God. I can finally think. 

 

Slenderman knew my mom. Probably. And Anaïs might have fucked him. Or she might have not. But she probably did something questionable with him. And if Slenderman is somehow my . . . dad . . . ( _ disgusting _ ) then that would make sense, I guess. Why she always said I was cursed. 

 

Or maybe she didn’t fuck him. Maybe she, like, offered me up. I can somewhat imagine that going down, her saying something along the lines of “ _ Here is my firstborn son, now give me some cool powers _ .” Only she didn’t  _ have  _ any cool powers. She was just Anaïs Lefèvre, a bird-frail, ghostlike woman who never spoke to anyone but me, Jonathan, and Saalim. She stood on the porch at 4 in the morning staring off into the forest, she boarded up my bedroom window and sat outside my door at night. Like she was always afraid. 

 

“Hey, Jeff, can you write something down?” I ask. 

 

When I get no answer, I look over and see that the Benadryl’s already knocked him out. He’s curled up with his head resting against the window. His notebook’s slipped from his hands and sits in the middle seat next to the unopened fan. 

  
He was drawing me.

 

It’s crude, lines of varying density everywhere, some of them slightly smeared from the side of his hand. But it’s definitely me. There are a few other notes in Spanish, a drawing of a fat pigeon, some stars and planets in the corner of the page. 

 

I quickly look up from the notebook back to the road. 

 

“Uh, Jeff,” I say, louder, trying to ignore how my face heats up. “Wake up, I need you to do something.” 

 

Yeah, he’s out cold. 

 

After about thirty minutes, we make it to the border of California. We have to take one of the highways to make it into Nevada, and that should take . . . three hours tops. We can probably stop around the Klamath National Forest, and then head directly west, and we shouldn’t get lost as long as I know what the fuck I’m doing. Which I don’t. 

 

Jeff doesn’t start waking up until about an hour and a half later, and makes absolutely no noise until suddenly, and very groggily, he goes, “Quiero morir orita.” Then he goes unconscious again. 

 

I steal a glance at the map on my iPod. We’re halfway to a motel. Fantastic. Jeff can crash and either die in his sleep from ingesting so much Benadryl or sleep for three days, and I can have time to lament and then panic about what a shitty decision this road trip was. 

 

The motel - Peak Inn - doesn’t have very many people parked out front. It’s pretty small. Looks like somewhere a serial killer or drug dealer would live. But it’ll do. 

 

I park the truck, leave Jeff, and hurry up to the reception room. 

 

There’s an older woman with more neck than anything else behind the counter reading a magazine. She barely acknowledges me as I walk in. I try to calm my nerves about being recognized - after all, around the time of my disappearance, I only had a couple strands of white. Around the time of Abernathy, the majority of my hair was still brown. And no one really knows about Abernathy. It was covered up. 

 

I take a deep breath, steel my nerves, and say, “Uh.” 

 

_ Great going, Aeron. You’re a fucking genius.  _

 

The woman regards me with obvious distaste. “We’ve got two rooms available. Single bed.” 

 

“That’s fine.” 

 

She casually tosses me a room key, I pay, and a minute later I’m back out at the truck, wondering what the fuck just happened. 

 

Jeff’s still treading the line between unconscious and slightly delirious. I had the fan going, but it doesn’t help with how hot and sweaty he is, so I stick my hand under his shirt and draw out all the heat from his body that I can without killing him. He jerks up, smacking his knees against the dashboard with a birdlike screech. 

 

“Good morning,” I say lamely, as he violently smacks my hand away while sputtering curses. 

 

“Dude que _ fuck _ !” Jeff shouts. 

 

“I got us a room,” I tell him. 

 

“Fuck off, let me sleep.” 

 

“You wouldn’t be so tired if you hadn’t downed a whole fucking bottle of Benadryl!” I snap back. 

 

Jeff thinks for a moment, and then makes the most hideous noise I’ve ever heard in my life. Like car tires screeching over a very pissed off velociraptor.  

 

I glare at him. “Jeff.” 

 

“Rowan,” Jeff grumbles, finally disentangling himself from the seatbelt and clambering out of the truck. I notice him possessively grabbing his composition notebook and shoving it haphazardly into his bookbag. 

 

I unlock room 16, suck in a breath, and push the door open. 

 

It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. 

 

It’s one huge room with a smaller one that serves as the bathroom. The kitchen is pretty small, and the bed and dresser takes up most of the space. There are only a few spots on the walls that look like what could have been bloodstains. There’s a box tv and a small sofa that probably barely fits two people. 

 

Jeff tosses his bag onto the floor and collapses. 

 

“Don’t die in your sleep,” I say half-heartedly, shutting the door behind me as I enter. 

 

Jeff grumbles incomprehensibly. 

 

I hop onto the other side of the bed and pull the Chromebook out of my bag. Tristan set up an account on some website that’ll let me talk to her whenever I need to, and I’d promised to try and contact her every chance I got. But she doesn’t answer. 

 

I close the Chromebook, toss it onto the sofa, and glance at Jeff. After a moment or two of staring at him, I tentatively poke his side. 

 

“Leave me the fuck alone,” he grumbles into the pillow. 

 

“You can’t just drink allergy medicine, Jeffrey.” 

 

“Mmh.” 

 

“Do you wanna try and figure out how we’re gonna contact your mom in the morning?” 

 

“Mhm.” 

 

I sigh and pat his side. “No more medicine drinking, okay? That . . . that scared me.” 

 

He rolls over, hair splayed around his face, and throws his arm out across my thigh. “Tis but a flesh wound,” he says sleepily. 

 

I roll my eyes and flop down next to him. His knuckles brush against mine. 

 

“Goodnight,” I say, staring up at the ceiling. Thinking back to the drawing. 

 

Jeff doesn’t answer, so I assume that he’s fallen back asleep. I stare up at the dusty popcorn ceiling. It’s an ugly shade of beige. The worst part is I think it was white as one point. 

 

I jump a little when I hear Jeff speak. 

 

“Sorry ‘bout the medicine,” he mumbles. 

 

“You’re fine.” I casually run my finger over the back of his hand, hoping he doesn’t say anything. “EJ told me you get hyper when you’re restless.” 

 

Jeff hums. 

 

“We can try and contact Margaret in the morning,” I say. “And maybe Tristan. She said she was going to try and find leads on Peggy.” 

 

“Sounds good,” Jeff replies, right before he pinches my wrist. 

 

I wince and jerk my arm away. “Okay, I’ll let you sleep now.” 

 

“Thank fucking God.” 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uh oh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> excuse the shitty french .

I would say that Slenderman hates me, but that’s a huge understatement. He despises me with every ounce of his ancient being. And to be honest, that’s to be expected. Slenderman loves no one, and only likes a select few. 

 

That being said, getting him to talk is going to be near impossible. 

 

He regards me as I stand in front of his table with my arms crossed over my chest. LJ is keeping Brian and Tim busy while Sadie sits outside the door in case of an emergency. Slenderman is occupied with me at the moment, so I doubt he realizes that Sadie’s eyes are everywhere. 

 

He drums his skeletal fingers on the desk. 

 

_ What did you need? _

 

“I need you to tell me what happened to Peggy Steinberg,” I say shortly. 

 

_ I’m afraid I don’t know who that is. _

 

“I’m afraid you do,” I snap. When there is no reply, I twitch in irritation and try to keep my voice from rising to a shout. “What’s your involvement with the skinwalkers, then? You’ve banned us from going too far into the forest without a partner, so you know that somethin’s happenin’.” 

 

Slenderman’s fingers abruptly stop drumming. 

 

_ How do you know of that? _

 

“Uh, because I got attacked by one? An’ so did Aeron?” I scoff. “An’ we didn’t tell you ‘cause you’re a piece of shit and wouldn’t have believed us. But now that you’ve banned that area of the forest, I  _ know  _ that you know they’re around. An’ I found Peggy’s necklace near one of them. So tell me. What happened to my girlfriend?” 

 

_ I do not know a Peggy Steinberg. _

 

“Bullshit!” I yell, slamming my hands on the desk. Slenderman leans back a bit in his chair. “You better tell me where the fuck Peggy is. You don’t wanna lose one of your precious proxies, do you?” 

 

I instantly imagine all the beautiful ways I could get rid of them. Tim’s so drugged up all the time that he’d be easy - I could put a bullet in his head, slit his throat, toss him off the cliffsides south of the mansion. Brian is a bit different. It doesn’t take any drugs or mind control to get him to cooperate with Slenderman. He’s a bitch who likes to please. I’d have fun tearing him apart. 

 

_ I do not advise an attack against my proxies. _

 

“Then tell me where she is.” 

 

_ I’m afraid I do not know _ . 

 

I push back the burning in my eyes and lean forwards. I’ve never been this close to Slenderman before. I’m surprised when my voice comes out steady. “Tell me. Where she is.” 

 

_ Leave my office.  _

  
  


* * *

 

 

_ “Cacher.”  _

 

_ I sit up in my bed, staring at the shadow in my doorway. From here, even with how dark it is, I can see how wide and wild Mom’s eyes are. Her hair is a mess, and she’s shaking.  _

 

_ “Cacher, Rowan.” Her eyes reflect the moonlight. I can see the whites from here. Her mouth is a thin line, and she’s pale and sweaty. “Maintenant.”  _

 

_ “Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?” I sit up in bed, beginning to feel the panic. “Maman?”  _

 

_ “Vite!” she hisses, rushing over to my bed. “Il est ici.”  _

 

_ “Qui?” I look around, bewildered. My eyes go from my boarded-up window to the closet door, cracked slightly open. Mom grabs my arms, and I jump out of bed and let her drag me across the room. “Qui, Maman? Qui est ici?”  _

 

_ She grabs my shoulders and pushes me out of my room. She doesn’t shut the door behind her. “Tais-toi.”  _

 

_ I obey, and go quiet. After all, it’s not the first time this has happened. I let Mom hastily usher me through the house to the basement. Her nails dig painfully into my shoulders, and I whimper and struggle to keep up with her panicked strides.  _

 

_ As we pass the front window, I catch a glimpse of a tall man. But she covers my eyes before I can look again. _

 

I wake up drenched, covered in sweat from head to toe. 

 

My heart doesn’t calm down until I feel Jeff’s breathing on the back of my neck. It’s very faint, so he’s likely a couple inches away from me, but I still feel his warmth, the way the mattress dips under his weight, and it’s oddly comforting. 

 

My magic is pressing at my throat, and I can feel it urging to be released. Unfortunately I can’t go outside and burn a tree or two down. I’m not in the middle of the forest anymore. 

 

I slowly get up, gently as to not wake Jeff, and stagger into the kitchen. I hadn’t had time to explore the room before I collapsed. I hope the water’s at least cold. 

 

It is. My magic coils back as I splash cold water onto my face and arms. The sound of thunder outside makes me jump, and a small spark ignites under my fingers. I haven’t been this on-edge since . . . well, probably since the skinwalker. 

 

I walk around the kitchen barefoot while I wait for my magic to calm down. When I’m finally certain that I’m not going to set the bedsheets on fire, I walk over to my side of the bed, turn the little fan on, and slip underneath the scratchy blanket. 

 

Then my head starts to pound. Faint at first, and then it slowly gets worse until it feels like my head’s about to collapse. I quickly sit up and rub the sides of my head, forcing my breathing to slow down. I can hear my own heartbeat speeding up, and then I groan. 

 

“You good?” I hear Jeff mumble. 

 

“I’m fine,” I wheeze, pressing hard against the sides of my head. “Just a headache.” 

 

My vision clears for a moment, and I see Jeff watching me worriedly. “You . . . sure?” 

 

“Mhm. I just need to . . . walk outside.” I lock my knees so I don’t fall over when I go to stand up. 

 

“Aeron, it’s storming.” A crack of thunder makes my ears ring as soon as he’s finished talking. I ignore him and pick my jacket up off the floor. Jeff scrambles out of the bed a second later as I’m wrenching the door open and stepping outside underneath the rain. 

 

“Aeron, goddammit,” Jeff huffs, tugging his hood up over his head as he steps outside beside me. He stays underneath the overhang, watching me walk out in the parking lot with a hand still on the side of my head. “You’re going to smell like worms!” he calls after me. 

 

I wince as the ringing in my ears go away and stand in the center of the parking lot. There are only a couple other cars, but it’s still too close. I start walking towards the woods. 

 

“Aeron? Aeron!” Jeff runs after me, almost slipping on the gravel. He grabs my arm and whirls me around. “What the fuck?” he hisses, blinking water from his eyes. “What’s wrong?” 

 

“Just a buildup. I get headaches when my magic has to, uh, be released,” I lie. I’ve never gotten a headache this bad before. Maybe some throbbing behind my eyes, and that gross tingling sensation, but this is different. Probably just from driving so long. “So I’m going into the forest to -  _ shit _ !” 

 

The headache comes back without warning and I double over. The gravel is already getting hot and my hair is starting to dry even though I’m getting pelted by rain. 

 

I look up. “What?” 

 

Jeff’s hands still over my shoulders. “What?” 

 

“What’d you say?” I ask, as the ringing goes away again. The headache is still there, but at least I can breathe again. 

 

“I didn’t say anything.” Jeff tosses my arm over his shoulder. “I can’t fucking believe you. It’s like two in the morning. We’re going back inside.” 

 

I frown. I could have sworn that Jeff said something about the lake. 

 

Jeff tosses me into the motel room as soon as we’re close enough and slams the door behind him. Now that I’m inside and my magic’s calmed down, I’m freezing. The headache is gone, leaving me feeling dizzy and tired. 

 

“Strip,” he orders, already emptying his shoes of water. 

 

I start. “Excuse me?” 

 

“Unless you wanna sleep in wet clothes.” Jeff tugs his shirt off and wrings it out over the sink. “You’ve also got ash caked all over your face.” 

 

I wipe underneath my eyes and look at my hand. Jeff’s right. There’s ash dried all over my face and neck.

 

I try not to glance over at him as we both change clothes. I turn the fan off after a while of being unable to stand the cold and grab a long-sleeved shirt and a sweater. I forgot that being drenched always makes me feel sick to my stomach - I’m not sure if it’s my fear of water, my magic’s fear of water, or something else. 

 

Jeff runs a rag over warm water and sits on the bed. “Come here.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

He rolls his eyes impatiently. “You’ve got ash everywhere and there’s no mirror in the bathroom.” 

 

I sit down on the bed next to him and make the executive decision to ignore how hard my heart is pounding in my chest. 

 

Jeff moves around and squints. “Do you ever wash your face?” 

 

“I can count your dandruff flakes,” I snap.

 

Jeff rolls his eyes and starts wiping ash from my chin. He flicks chunks of ash from the rag and then continues up my jaw to the bottom of my eye. “Do you get headaches like that often?” he asks. 

 

“Yes,” I lie. 

 

Jeff smacks me in the face with the rag. “You’re a bad liar.”

 

“It doesn’t have anything to do with the magic,” I lie again. 

 

Jeff smacks me with the rag again. 

 

I put my hands up defensively, wincing when he grabs the side of my neck and jerks me closer so he can continue wiping the ash off. “Okay, I  _ think  _ it had something to do with the magic, but I’m not sure. EJ usually helped with new stuff, but . . . I haven’t spoken to him since we fought.” 

 

“Guess you’re dying,” he says nonchalantly, dragging the rag over my eyes. 

 

“Maybe,” I say quietly. Because that could actually happen, couldn’t it? I’ve always been immune to any kind of fire. Mom found that out when I knocked a candle over and the flames just lapped harmlessly at my hand for a few minutes. But I don’t know about being on fire internally. If my magic decides to start burning away at my organs, am I going to be immune to that, too? 

 

Jeff finishes wiping my face off and tosses the rag into our pile of wet clothes. And then we just sit there awkwardly, staring at each other. I clear my throat and look away. “So, tomorrow we can - oh,  _ fuck  _ me!” 

 

“Uh, what?” 

 

I scramble across the bed, grabbing Jeff’s notebook and his pencil. He gives a barbaric shriek and almost vaults himself over me trying to grab it. I open to the last page, harshly tear the paper out, and smack the composition book against his face as I roll away from him to the other side of the bed. 

 

“I need to write something down,” I say hastily, scribbling a set of numbers and road names onto the paper. “I was gonna ask you in the truck but you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you up and Idon’treallyknowwhatI’mdoingI’mkinda -” 

 

Jeff smacks the paper out of my hands and grabs my shoulders. “Rowan. Calm down.” 

 

“My mom’s address,” I wheeze. “I need my mother’s address, I’ve got to get back to my mother -” 

 

“We’re going to  _ Arizona _ . Doesn’t your mother live in South Dakota?” 

 

“I can’t die - I can’t die without her knowing where I am -” 

 

Jeff digs his nails into my shoulders, looking horrified. “Rowan, stop.” 

 

The ringing in my ears abruptly gets worse and I jerk my head sideways, knocking my jaw against my shoulder. Jeff’s hands go from my shoulders to the sides of my head. “Rowan, calm down. You’re not going to die.” 

 

I try to steady my breathing too fast and nearly choke. My vision’s blurry. Jeff’s rubbing my jaw. 

 

“I’m okay,” I croak. 

 

“No more magic,” Jeff says uneasily. 

 

“Okay.” 

 

“It’s like three in the morning. You should go back to sleep.” 

 

“O . . . okay.” I shakily take the scrap of paper and place it on the nightstand. My vision’s so blurry that I can hardly make out the words, but for some reason Jeff is staring at it with wide eyes. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and slowly trail over to the couch. The bed’s too similar to the one Sam had in his apartment. 

 

Jeff follows me, frowning. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

 

“I’m fine.” I don’t feel fine. My chest is hot, like I’m close to a burnout, and all of the shadows are swimming. And judging by the look Jeff gives me, I don’t sound fine, either. But I can hardly hear my own voice over the pounding in my head. 

 

I situate myself on the opposite end of the couch, as far away from the bed as I can get. My heart’s still beating wildly in my chest, and I feel like I’m going to throw up if I don’t calm down.

 

Jeff’s frown doesn’t leave. “Do you want me to get you some water?” 

 

“No,” I say quickly, leaning forwards on the couch. “No, don’t. Don’t leave.” I glance over towards the windows and shiver. “Can you cover up the windows? Make sure no one can get inside?” 

 

“Why would anyone do that?” 

 

“Please.” 

 

“Alright.” Jeff shuts the curtains and ties them so that they can’t blow open. As soon as all of the windows in the room are completely covered, I relax. No one can hurt me. I could just burn them if they tried. “Do you get like this often?” Jeff asks, sitting on the couch next to me. I immediately lean over and smack against his side. 

 

I laugh. “I don’t know what you mean, I’m fine.” 

 

“Uh . . . no, you’re not.” 

 

“Mhmmm, yes I am.” I squeeze closer to him and close my eyes against the beating of rain against the windows. “I’m fine now. No windows, I can just burn them.” 

 

“I guess.” 

 

“Goodnight.” 

 

Jeff doesn’t respond. 

  
  



	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aeron's not feeling so good, mr. stark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my laptop committed suicide : (

I wake up feeling like shit. 

 

I’m drenched in sweat and probably don’t smell any better than I feel. There’s a layer of ash caked around my face and on the hideous yellow blanket that I’m wrapped up in. Jeff’s asleep beside of me, an arm around my shoulder and apparently completely oblivious to how nasty I am at the moment. 

 

I don’t remember what happened last night, but something must have, because the floors are scorched and all the windows are shut. I can hardly see two feet in front of me. It feels like a dungeon. The desk lady isn’t going to be very happy with us. 

 

“Jeff,” I grumble, too tired to turn my head. He’s asleep and probably isn’t waking up anytime soon. I must have kept him up all night doing stupid shit. Maybe I had a breakdown. I had a headache, didn’t I? And there were whispers. I can’t remember what they said. 

 

I slip off the couch, tossing the blanket on top of Jeff, and tentatively open up one of the windows. A golden beam of light fills the room and highlights the burns on the floors and walls. I wince and squint past the burning in my eyes. 

 

Yeah. I did a number on the place. The blankets on the bed are flung everywhere, there are scraps of paper littering the floor. Jeff’s covered in ash as well as the couch. 

 

My eyes are heavy. I feel like I’ve been crying for hours. Probably have been. 

 

I stumble over to the bed and start throwing the blankets back into place. There’s a scrap of paper on the nightstand, with Jeff’s pencil and composition notebook beside of it. I lean over to read it. 

 

.tah eulb .net neht dna evlewt .reh dnif. 

 

“What the fuck?” I grumble, holding the paper up to the light so I can make sure I’m not having a stroke. Nope, whoever wrote this definitely wrote it backwards. But it’s not my handwriting, and it’s definitely not Jeff’s, either. I write tall and Jeff, for some reason, looks like he writes in goddamn comic sans. This is hasty chicken scratch. It’s a miracle I can read it. 

 

I hear a shifting behind me and turn around. Jeff’s peeling his shirt off and shaking the ash out on the carpet. “Shit,” he mutters, “you bled fucking ash everywhere.” 

 

I tuck the paper into my pocket. Jeff must be so tired that he doesn’t realize he’s shirtless. I can see how mangled his arms are. The scars from the acid, or whatever he was burned with years ago, are faded but definitely there, trailing up his arms, across his chest, and almost to his jaw. My burn marks are there. It looks like he was struck by lightning. And then the thin lines in neat rows on top of all that. 

 

I wince, tearing my gaze away from him. My back probably doesn’t look any better. I haven’t had the courage to look at it for years. Hopefully the lines are faded a bit by now. “What happened last night?”

 

“You don’t remember?” he says incredulously. 

 

“I remember a migraine, and rain, and . . .” I try to remember what all happened. I definitely went outside, because I can remember the feeling of rain and there are damp clothes in the corner. “Someone said something about . . . about a lake.” 

 

Jeff frowns. “I think you were hearing things.” 

 

_ She’s in the lake _ . 

 

I perk up. “Is there a lake nearby?” 

 

“Yeah, there’s one a couple yards down the cliff next to the - Rowan!” 

 

I hurry to grab my shoes and race out the door. Jeff runs after me, and I forget that he’s  _ incredibly  _ fast, because he catches me in about 2.3 seconds. 

 

He twirls me around. I almost slip in the gravel. 

 

“Rowan, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Jeff snaps. 

 

“I have to go look at the lake.” 

 

“Why? Because a voice in your head told you to?” 

 

“Yes!” 

 

I don’t realize how stupid I sound until the moment of silence afterwards. Thank God no one’s in the parking lot. 

 

Jeff lets go of my shoulders and starts walking back to the room.

 

“Where are you going?” I call after him, stuck between following him and running down to the lake. 

 

“Away from you,” he shouts back. 

 

I grit my teeth. “Fine then, asshole! I’ll look by myself.” 

 

“Go ahead, dipshit, see if I care.” And he slams the door shut behind him. 

 

I calm myself down once I realize my fingers are starting to smoke and continue to the lake. The ground is still wet after the rain last night and pieces of grass blades are already sticking to my ankles. I should have thought about changing out of these sweatpants. 

 

I hear the rushing of water the further I slide down the cliff, using the thin trees as leverage so I don’t slip and fall. The lake isn’t too wide, about half a mile, and the ground comes to a gentle slope at the bank. There are grasshoppers everywhere. The frogs go silent as I get closer. 

 

I squint and look up and down the length of the river. I can see where it ends on one side, and on the other it seems to get a bit darker, with dead trees leaning over the sides, creating sort of a canopy. It looks more like a swamp. 

 

And . . . I don’t see anything. I walk up and down the length of the bank on both sides and find nothing. No body, no bag of human remains or some shit, no brightly colored object besides a nice-looking frog and an empty wine bottle. 

 

I start heading down to the swampy area. There’s a small worn-down path that leads directly to the end of the lake on that side, so I follow it, grasshoppers jumping out of my way as I walk. It’s quiet besides the birds and the occasional splash in the water from a fish. Sam used to love fishing - he’d always take me, but wouldn’t let me do anything. He’d laugh at me whenever I asked if the hook would hurt the fish. 

 

I hate fishing. 

 

The feeling suddenly washes over me, the uncomfortable emptiness, and I stop, wondering if it’s because of the memories of Sam or if I’m being watched. I turn around, beginning to feel panicky and cold, and then see the glint of metal through the boughs of dead, sun-bleached trees. 

 

There’s a van down here, wrecked against a massive oak and sunk halfway in the mossy water. I don’t see anyone in it. It must have come down from the long driveway, or a road that leads from the interstate. Going in the direction of the motel. 

 

It takes me about ten minutes to pick my way through the dense brush and reach the side of the van. I press my face against the glass and squint - there’s no one inside, but there is a backpack and some other papers and books in the backseat. I try the door. It’s unlocked. 

 

I crawl halfway in through the backseat and shuffle the papers around. They’re mostly what looks like doctor reports, transcripts, and receipts. I grab a handful of them along with the backpack and quickly climb out. 

 

As soon as my feet touch the ground, the car gives a painful groan and sinks a few inches into the water. 

 

I sit down in a mossy patch of grass and flip through the papers. They’re for something called  _ Secure, Contain, Protect _ . That must be . . . an organization, or something. There are files here, similar to the ones Slenderman had in his office. 

 

When I see the picture of Jeff above all of his medical information, and the words  _ In Progress, _ my skin goes cold. He’s young in the picture, but it’s definitely him. The scars at the corners of his mouth seem fresh. 

 

I hear a click and spin around. There’s a man in army-styled clothing, with a helmet over his face so I can’t see his expression. He has his gun aimed towards me. 

 

“Drop what you’re holding,” I hear him say. 

 

I blink through the ash falling from my eyelashes and feel my palms growing warm. The man takes a step closer, his fingers going to the trigger, and that’s all it takes for me to lose my composure. 

 

The cloud of smoke that rises through the ground serves as a distraction so I can dash towards him, my brain still not completely caught up with my head until my hand is resting on his face and all the head goes there. 

 

I hear the gunshot, but I can’t tell if he hit me or not because ah fuck, I’m numb everywhere. All the heat in my body goes to my hand and it melts through his helmet in less than a second. 

 

The heat quickly floods back and I recall Jeff’s self-defense lessons and kick the man’s legs out from underneath him. While he’s stumbling, I rip his helmet off, take a handful of his slightly-melted hair, and pull until he lets go of the gun. 

 

I kick it out of the way and wrestle with him on the ground. I get to his legs and burn through his flesh, straight to his tendons, and he screams. 

 

He grabs my neck and slams me into the ground. I feel his blood against my skin as he rolls on top of me, hands tight around my neck. 

 

I reach up and burn his arms, wincing as I hear the flesh sizzling. He doesn’t seem to feel it, but his eyes go wide. 

 

“Behemoth,” he snarls. I kick him in the chest. 

 

Before he can get up, I grab his hair and drag him to the water’s edge. He doesn’t struggle as much as I thought he would. Not until I push his head under the water. Then he starts to thrash. 

 

I wait until he goes still and push his body into the lake, watching it float until he hits a tree. The fish are already beginning to nibble at his flesh. Maybe it will look like an accident.

 

I look down and see that the side of my stomach is bloody. 

 

“Shit,” I hiss, jerking my shirt up. My hands melt the fabric. 

 

The bullet grazed me. A couple more inches and I’d probably be dead. 

 

I move the heat away from my hands and grab everything that I had dropped. I’ll have to hurry back up to the motel - which is about a hundred yards away right now. If there are more vans going for Jeff, then I’m not going to make it in time. 

 

I glance back at the van crushed against the tree. Maybe someone intercepted them. 

 

I set the van on fire. Maybe it can warn Jeff. 

 

My head starts to throb as I run back to the motel as fast as my legs can carry me. I don’t look back at the massive fire rising from the van, but I know the smoke is definitely high enough to be visible from the motel. 

 

I run out onto a wide road. I must have taken a different route back - I can barely see the sign of the motel. 

 

I hear vehicles approaching. 

 

I turn around and see three of them, exactly the same as the one I just set on fire, heading towards me. They don’t seem intent on stopping. I can see the drivers, all wearing the same armor as the man from before, and the glint of a gun barrel. They’re going to shoot me from the windows. 

 

In about six seconds, I slam my foot against the ground in front of me and almost fall over when the road cracks and bends, the earth almost splitting open between us. The road cracks all the way to the vans. They don’t slow down. 

 

The explosion happens beneath the road. 

 

I jump to the side so I don’t get hit with a chunk of flying asphalt. One of the vans swerves to the side and overcorrects. It hits the second one in the middle, sending the two of them skidding. The third one flies directly up, having been in the center of the blast. 

 

When it hits the road, I see a splatter of blood against the windshield before it slides a few feet and comes to a standstill. 

 

The two other vans are still. They’re on fire.

 

I slowly get up, checking to make sure that I still have the backpack and all the papers I’d stuffed inside of it. I don’t have any injuries, either. And I don’t think the vans made it to the motel. 

 

I run back to the motel as fast as I can. My legs feel hollow. 

 

There are no vans at the motel’s parking lot, but Jeff’s standing outside, completely still, staring into the distance. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me running, bloody and caked in ash with my shirt burned around the edges. 

 

“You look rough,” he comments idly. 

 

“We’ve got to go,” I gasp, “Now.” 

 

Jeff glances back at the two plumes of smoke and grunts in agreement. 

 

Good thing we didn’t bother unpacking, because it only takes us about ten minutes to have everything back in the truck. 

 

“They’re after you,” he says, as I struggle to keep from flooring the gas pedal, “aren’t they? They’re the same vans we saw around Abernathy after . . .” 

 

“I don’t know,” I say hastily, as we drive past the vans that are on fire. Jeff’s silent for a while, and I hope he doesn’t say anything, because I don’t - 

 

“Did you do this?” he asks, peering out the window. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Who’s that?” 

 

I don’t answer. Jeff grabs my arm and I slam on the brakes. 

 

“Rowan. Who is that?” he repeats, still staring out of the window. I follow his gaze. 

 

There’s a female figure standing in the center of the fire, turned towards us, dressed in all black, face obscured by a motorcycle helmet. There is a thick patch of ice surrounding her feet, keeping her safe from the flames. 

 

“I didn’t see her before,” I say. My hands are shaking around the steering wheel. 

 

“There’s . . . ice,” Jeff says quietly. Then he turns back around. “Go. Now.” 

 

This time I slam the gas pedal all the way down. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

We don’t see any more vans. 

 

Jeff’s quiet. I don’t know if he’s still angry with me or just shaken up. 

 

“Jeff,” I try gently, not daring to take my eyes off the road. “Look . . . look through that black book bag. I found it in a van down by the lake.” 

 

“You’re also bleeding,” he snaps. I flinch. “Want to bother explaining that?” 

 

“I almost got shot. I’m fine, it just grazed me. There was a man down by the lake.” 

 

“Was?” he grumbles, reaching down to wrench the backpack from beneath the dash. 

 

“Yeah. He’s dead.” 

 

Jeff doesn’t respond. He sits back and starts shuffling through the papers in the bag. He frowns. “These are all just . . . medical records and receipts.” 

 

“Receipts for what?” 

 

“Uh . . .” Jeff holds one of the various strips of paper up and squints. I see him holding it farther, and then closer to his face. Does he have bad vision or something? “This one’s for duct tape, medical bandages, vitamin water, and a couple pairs of socks.” 

 

“That’s an odd combination.” 

 

Jeff holds up another one, moves it around, and then sighs. 

 

“Do you need glasses?” 

 

Jeff grumbles something under his breath and digs through one of his bags. He pulls out a large, square-rimmed pair of glasses and puts them on. I try not to grin. “This one’s for . . . some more vitamin water, Ibuprofen, tampons - so it belongs to a girl?”

 

“Oh, fuck,” I groan. “We just stole that scary woman’s book bag, didn’t we?” 

 

“I’m not finished,” Jeff says. He sits back in his seat and continues reading, “Vaseline, a sewing kit, lighter fluid, and . . . soothing ointment?” 

 

“Odd. Any more?” 

 

“Here’s another one for Dunkin’ Donuts. An egg and cheese sandwich and a caramel latte. How lovely.” He rolls his eyes. “This was three days ago. So do you think the scary lady was chasing us or those vans?” 

 

I think back to the van that was crashed against the tree. I hadn’t checked for anything, but I definitely don’t remember there being ice. “The vans, I think. They had something of hers.” I nod towards the bag. 

 

“So . . . the ice.” 

 

I wince. If there’s someone who can use ice like I can use fire . . . 

 

“You’re screwed,” Jeff says, pulling out a gray pair of socks from the bag. “Right? ‘Cause I’ve played Pokemon, and I’m pretty certain ice has a significant advantage over fire.” Then he frowns. “But fire can melt ice.” 

 

“What if it’s water?” I say pointedly. “Water can put out fire.” 

 

“Not grease fires.” 

 

“I only really specialize in one type of fire, buddy.” 

 

Jeff clicks his tongue. “Alright, but what if she carries around a fire extinguisher?” 

 

“Why the hell would she do that?” 

 

“On the bright side,” he continues, ignoring me, “if she was after the vans and you burned all of the information inside of that one down at the lake, and also killed everyone inside of all three vans plus that one guy who shot you, then there’s no way she’ll know that you’re a fire guy.” 

 

“The man at the lake called me a Behemoth,” I say slowly. “Just like EJ used to.” 

 

Jeff frowns. “Slenderman made Behemoths.” 

 

“And we think he might have something to do with my mother,” I add. 

 

“Meaning we think he may or may not have fucked your mother,” Jeff continues, “and that may or may not mean he’s your father.” 

 

Fuck. Shit. Dammit. 

 

“But we have proof that Sam was my father,” I say. “Anaïs took a paternity test and everything. She kept the results in a box with some photos and shit.” 

 

“Maybe it’s a magic thing. Or maybe Anaïs was a Behemoth, and Slenderman was like her dad or something,” he suggests. “You know, and then all that was just him checking in on her?” 

 

“Look me in the eyes and tell me Slenderman’s the type of dad to ‘check in’ on his kids.” 

 

“A fair point.” 

 

I sigh, glancing at the clock on the radio. It’s only 9:34. Not even noon and I’ve killed over twenty people. 

 

“We saw those vans at Abernathy,” Jeff says. “You were out of commission, so you didn’t see it on the news, but they were everywhere. And then everything sort of disappeared. You can’t find the news recordings anywhere, there wasn’t any publishing in the newspapers, nothing.” 

 

I don’t want to think about Abernathy. The screams, the shells of people burned from the inside out, the ash and burned-down buildings. 

 

And me. Sitting in the epicenter. 

 

I killed over a thousand people and for some reason there was hardly any news coverage. No investigation was ever released to the public. No suspects. Even Slender was oddly quiet about it. No one spoke to me for half a year after that, and then Slender found me on the roof and was forced to speak up about it. That it wasn’t my fault and all that. 

 

“So maybe they’re responsible for that,” I say. My throat is dry. “All the silence about it. There was a massive fire in the area afterwards, wasn’t there? And all the attention went there. Abernathy got glossed over.” 

 

“Yeah.” Jeff leans against the window. “It did.” 

 

After a moment of painful silence, I say, “I didn’t mean to blow up.” 

 

“I know you didn’t,” is the curt reply. 

 

Jeff knew someone who died in Abernathy. That’s what EJ told me. They weren’t too close, more like acquaintances or business partners, but Jeff was still hurt. It’s why we hated each other so much. 

 

I keep my eyes on the road. There aren’t too many people out. We’re almost over the border of Nevada. 

 

“I’m sorry,” I repeat. 

 

“It’s fine,” Jeff grumbles. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, it’s not a good look.” 

 

I turn back to the road and dig my nails into my palms. 

 

“Can you take your shirt off, for the love of God?” Jeff finally groans. “It smells like burnt plastic.” 

 

I look down at the smoldering remains of my shirt hem. 

 

“Oh. Right.” 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER IS SO BAD I DON'T KNOW HOW FIREWORKS OR EMOTIONS WORK DKFNDKFN

**July 4th, 2006**

 

**Barmwich, Pennsylvania**

  
  


Peggy races to 203 Braswell Boulevard with a tattered backpack, a Bible, and her hair held in a half ponytail by a white ribbon. 

 

The sun’s already beginning to settle beneath the treelines of the distant mountains. Barmwich, despite being a small and sleepy town, is buzzing with excitement. Fireworks from South Carolina, a massive white tarp in the baseball field for the drive-in, and a warm summer night. Peggy’s never celebrated July 4th before. 

 

Tristan is already outside. She sees Peggy as she thunders down the driveway and grins, holding her arms out. Peggy nearly topples her over when she slams into the hug. 

 

“Christ!” Tristan laughs, stumbling to get her footing while Peggy clings to her. “You’re fast.” 

 

Peggy lets go and blows her hair out of her face. “Are we going?” 

 

“Calm down, there. We don’t leave ‘til 7.” 

 

“What time is it?” Peggy demands. 

 

“6:02.” 

 

“Heck.” 

 

“There we go!” Tristan exclaims. The screen door to the porch opens and Amelia walks out carrying a cooler. Tristan whirls around. “Did you hear that, Mom? She said heck! We’re makin’ progress!” 

 

“I’m so proud.” Amelia rolls her eyes. 

 

“C’mon.” Tristan grabs Peggy’s hand and drags her to the porch. “You’re not goin’ out dressed like that.” 

 

“I look wonderful,” Peggy protests. “Don’t you like my Hawaiian shirt?” 

 

Tristan stops on the top step and looks Peggy’s hand-me-down outfit over with a critical eye. “It could use some work. I do like the shirt, though. Maybe tuck it in and pop a button or two open. You’ll look like a stylish grandpa.” 

 

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.” 

 

Tristan just shrugs. Peggy follows close behind to Tristan’s room in the attic. It hasn’t changed much in the past month, besides Peggy’s bag of belongings and her pillows from all the nights she’s stayed over. Along with the several cutouts, posters, and pictures on the wall are Polaroids of the two of them. 

 

Peggy drops her skirt and sighs when she kicks it across the room. “My legs are free.” 

 

Tristan takes Peggy’s Bible and flips through it. The notes slip out. “So you really did it?” 

 

“Did what?” Peggy says cheekily, shuffling through her gym bag. 

 

“Wrote the letter.” Tristan unfolds the piece of notebook paper and reads it over. “I guess you haven’t given it to ‘em yet.” 

 

“I will.” Once Peggy’s wearing a pair of high waisted jeans and Tristan’s white Vans, she tucks in her shirt and joins Tristan by the door. She plucks the paper out of Tristan’s hands. “I’m sixteen, right? They can’t keep me there anymore.” 

 

Tristan grins and fixes Peggy’s shirt. “You’re givin’ off a retro 80’s vibe and I am  _ here  _ for it.” 

 

“Why thank you.” 

 

“Want to bring some lotion?” Tristan runs a finger down Peggy’s cheek and brightens up. “Hey, you don’t feel like sandpaper anymore! You’re stayin’ the night, right?” 

 

“Yep.” 

 

The two of them grab some Coke bottles from the fridge and join Amelia in the front yard. She already has blankets and some pillows packed in the 1980 Ford Caravan that Peggy’s grown to love. Tristan throws her arm around Peggy’s shoulders and leans against her. 

 

“We’re ready,” she sings to her mother. 

 

“Then get in the car before I leave the two of you.” 

 

Peggy and Tristan clamber into the back of the minivan, both bent over Tristan’s sketchbook. She’s been designing tattoos for the two of them. 

 

“I like the geometric one,” Peggy declares after flipping through the designs. She points to a thin triangle with a neatly drawn quartz crystal in the center. “It’d just be the lines, right? No color? I think you’d look good with that.” 

 

Tristan winces and flips the page. “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know. The crystals kinda look funny, y’know, and I don’t think I could pull of the geometric types -” 

 

Peggy flips back to the page and leans her chin on Tristan’s shoulder. “Hey. I think it’d look wonderful. You’re young, right? You get to do dumb stuff.” She wraps her arms around Tristan and smiles. “Don’t worry about how it’ll look. You’re a work of art.” 

 

Tristan hesitates for a moment, and then jerks out of Peggy’s grip and turns around, scribbling something into the notebook. Peggy frowns. “What was that about?” 

 

“I know what I’m gettin’ tattooed now.” Tristan grins over the top of the notebook. “And no, you can’t see until it’s finished.” 

 

“Aw. No fair.”    
  


* * *

 

They pull up to the high school’s baseball field. Tristan hugs her notebook close to her chest, shooting Peggy worrying grins every now and then. The minivan pulls into one of the smaller parking lots next to a large truck with some other teenagers sitting on the top and in the bed. 

 

Tristan’s grin disappears. “Oh, shit.” 

 

“Language,” Amelia says noncommittally. 

 

Peggy looks through the window at them. Tristan grabs her shoulder and jerks her down. “Don’t look at ‘em,” she hisses. Peggy blinks. “That’s Savannah and her friends. They’re jackasses. Don’t make eye contact.” 

 

“I wouldn’t have thought of it if you wouldn’t have brought it up just now,” Peggy says dryly. 

 

“They’re gonna think we’re datin’ and I’m never gonna hear the end of it.” Tristan curses quietly. 

 

Peggy tries not to feel offended. “Is that so bad? And since when do you care what people think?” She knows what her father would say. Something about being perfect in Jehovah’s eyes and ignoring the world’s views. But Peggy fell ass-deep into the world, so. “If they’re . . . what you said, then why bother to give them your time?” 

 

Tristan sighs. “I don’t care what they say ‘bout me. I’m more worried about you.” 

 

Peggy sits up. “I’ll punch them.” 

 

“You’re a stick, love.” 

 

“You can beat people to death with sticks.” 

 

“You can beat people to death with  _ branches _ ,” Tristan corrects. “You’re a small twig on an oak tree that falls off as soon as the wind blows.”

 

Amelia, who’s been watching the whole time, pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Y’know, I could have moved an’ parked somewhere else.” 

 

Tristan waves her hand dismissively and unbuckles. “Nah, we’re good. We’re good, right, Peg?” 

 

“If you say so.” 

 

Peggy immediately goes against Tristan’s advice and looks over at Savannah and her friends. She isn’t sure which one’s Savannah, but there’s a tall-looking girl with long blonde hair in a ponytail sitting next to a smaller Asian girl with shoulder-length black hair and large, circular glasses. There are two more girls, both with brown hair and blue eyes. They look similar - twins, maybe. 

 

There are three boys with them. One looks significantly older, like he could be in his late twenties. The other is broad-shouldered and brunette. And the third looks . . . awfully familiar. Peggy realizes that it’s the strange Belial guy she met some weeks ago at the skate park. He looks the same: baggy clothes in neutral colors, shaggy brown hair. She notices he has a few more piercings than last time. His gauges are bigger, too. 

 

“It’s Belial,” Peggy says, slamming the car door shut. Tristan huffs. 

 

“Don’t get his attention,” she grumbles, leading Peggy to the other side of the car, out of the group’s sight. 

 

Amelia’s setting up a few blankets on the pavement. She waves the girls over. 

 

“I’m gonna go get our tickets,” she says. “You two don’t stray too far from the car, alright?”

 

“Gotcha,” Tristan finger guns. Amelia hugs her, rubs Peggy’s shoulders, and heads off towards the small shack on the hill. 

 

While Tristan sets out beer bottles and Coke, Peggy stands in front of the car and looks out over the baseball field. There are people camped out on the field and too many cars to count in the parking lots surrounding the stadium. The screen they have set up is massive. Peggy doesn’t even know what movie they’re watching. She hadn’t asked, just agreed to going before Tristan could finish the invitation. 

 

“So what’s so bad about Savannah? And which one’s which?” she asks, sitting cross-legged on one of the blankets. 

 

Tristan groans and pops open a Bud Light. “Goddess, where do I start? Savannah’s the blonde one. She’s the youth leader at the Baptist church that everyone goes to and leads this religion club at school. Bullied some kid last year so badly that he killed himself.” 

 

Peggy’s heart sinks. “Oh.” 

 

“The Asian girl? Don’t really know her. Think she’s an exchange student from Japan in our language program. Uh, Saori Yamamoto? Don’t know what she does, but she hangs out with Savannah, and that’s damning enough. The twins - Ariel and Callisto - are like . . . Savannah’s bodyguards? The guy with the beard is Eric. Other guy, big one, that’s Andrew. An’ you know Bel.” Tristan frowns. “Don’t know why Bel’s there, though. He usually hates ‘em.” 

 

Peggy leans against the car tire and stares out over the blurry figures of people in the baseball field. “What movie are we watching?” 

 

“Pirates of the Caribbean. Dead Man’s Chest, I think? It just came out like . . . last month.” 

 

“When are the fireworks?” 

 

“Before the movie, I think.” Tristan goes quiet, sipping her beer and staring off at the oncoming sunset. 

 

Peggy eventually starts listening in on the conversation happening two cars over. The group isn’t trying to be quiet. She can hear almost everything they’re saying. 

 

She isn’t sure who’s talking, “Can’t believe she’s here. Who’s the girl?” 

 

_ They’re talking about us _ . Peggy’s face heats up. She draws her knees to her chest and tries to focus on Tristan’s freckles. 

 

“She kinda looks like this one girl who walked up to my house once. She was a Witness, I think. Ran off once I told her to fuck off.” That’s one of the guys talking. Peggy tries remembering. She doesn’t recall any of their faces or his voice, but she does remember a time when a man grabbed her by her hair and yelled at her. 

 

“The Witnesses around this town are insane. But like, look how she’s dressed. And they wouldn’t hang out with  _ Tristan _ . She’s like . . . into Satanic shit. Witchcraft and all that.” That’s one of the twins - Peggy can see her talking from her spot on top of the truck. 

 

Her skin crawls with irritation. Amelia should be here soon, and then the kids should stop talking. Or she can ask Amelia to move, if they don’t. But that seems cowardly. 

 

Before she can knock the beer out of Tristan’s hands, someone jumps over the car and lands between them. Peggy jumps back and claps a hand over her mouth so she doesn’t shriek. 

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Tristan grumbles.

 

Belial situates himself comfortably on the blanket and grins. “Had a feeling you’d be here. Not you, though.” He casts a sideways glance at Peggy, one that makes her hairs stand on end. “How’s your family?” 

 

It takes Peggy a moment to realize that Belial’s talking to her. She frowns. “Why are you named after a demon?” 

 

“Didn’t like my deadname.” Belial grins through his shaggy hair. “So I chose one that I liked. Would you fuck a demon? I’d fuck a demon.” He looks over at Tristan. “Would _ you _ fuck a demon?” 

 

“Yes,” Tristan says tiredly. “Also what the fuck are you doin’ over here? Aren’t you busy kissin’ Savannah’s bitchy ass, you limp-dicked barrel of shit?” 

 

“Oh, your voice is like a song.” 

 

“Answer me, dipshit.” 

 

Belial just giggles to himself. “Because Andrew’s got like . . . How much?” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a huge wad of cash. “This much. An’ it’s mine now.” 

 

“You suck a dick for that?” Tristan asks nonchalantly. 

 

“Nope. Just took it out of his pocket.” 

 

“You  _ what _ ?” Tristan rocks forwards, her eyes comically wide. “You  _ stole  _ all that shit? He’s gonna fuckin’ kill you, Bel. As in put you in the motherfuckin’ ground.”

 

Belial puts his hands up. “Hey,” he says defensively, “there’s like a thousand here. This bitch can get himself a place to sleep instead of on a fucking bench.” 

 

“You could have fuckin’ stayed with me, and you said no!” 

 

Peggy frowns. She was certain that Tristan didn’t like Belial - after all, not only did she warn Peggy not to speak to him  _ multiple  _ times, she also apparently called him a limp-dicked barrel of shit, and Peggy’s pretty certain that isn’t a compliment, yet she offered him a place to stay with her? What a strange relationship. 

 

Belial tugs on his hoodie strings. “I don’t wanna intrude -” 

 

“Oh my gods. Bel.” Tristan shoves the Bud Light into his hands and then slaps the back of his head. She doesn’t take the beer back. “How are you even still homeless? Wouldn’t CPS have like done somethin’?” 

 

“I’m sixteen in two months, so they probably don’t wanna waste their resources on me,” Belial says calmly, taking a hesitant sip of the beer. Peggy wouldn’t have imagined him being so . . . cautious? Then again, if what she remembers is true, if Belial gets in trouble for underage drinking, he’s going straight back to his abusive parents. 

 

Then she realizes - “You’re only fifteen?” 

 

Belial’s unsettling eyes whip over to her. Peggy tries not to let it bother her. “You look older,” she explains. “I thought you were . . . seventeen-ish.” 

 

“It’s the stress,” he says lamely. 

 

“Oh, shut up,” Tristan mutters. “You’re stayin’ with us tonight. And do  _ not  _ drink that whole bottle.” 

 

“You shouldn’t be drinking, either,” Peggy snaps to her. “I’d rather you not get yourself and your mother in trouble with the law. If you go to Eastern, then who am I going to talk to?” 

 

“Yeah, yeah, my beloved wife,” Tristan grumbles. “I won’t drink anymore. I swear.” 

 

“Thank you.” 

 

Belial squints at them over the rim of the can. “Are you two together?” 

 

Peggy’s face burns and she splutters around her own Coke bottle. Tristan just rolls her eyes. “No. What makes you think that?” 

 

Belial leans back, looking unconvinced. “Y'all act like it.” 

 

“We do?” Peggy says tentatively. 

 

Amelia returns before Belial can elaborate. She doesn’t seem surprised to see Belial. She puts a large speaker on the ground and tosses Tristan a pack of glowsticks. “I know you’re obsessed with these. Don’t break them, for the love of the Goddess.” 

 

“Give me the pink ones,” Belial says excitedly. Tristan tosses him two glowsticks.

 

The lights in the stadium shut off. 

 

Peggy jumps a little and leans closer to Tristan. She hears cheering all around her that slowly comes to an impatient silence. Even the group of teenagers beside of them are quiet. They’re waiting for something. 

 

“Uh.” Peggy leans over to Tristan. “What’s going on?” 

 

“Just watch.” Tristan winks at her. 

 

Peggy doesn’t even get her mouth open before she sees a bright light darting up into the sky and then flickering out - and then exploding into an array of millions of colors. The resounding  _ boom _ that follows shakes her to her bones. She presses against Tristan. 

 

More fiery sparks whisp into the sky, followed by those thunderous noises. Eruptions of vivacious color on a pitch black background. Peggy stares at them until she feels like those brilliant multicolored lights are seared into her eyes. 

 

Peggy feels Tristan slipping her arm around her waist and looks up. She’s suddenly less interested in the brilliant display of lights and more so on Tristan’s expression. The light illuminating her face, the reflection of the fireworks in her eyes, her smile. 

 

“Fuck,” she breathes. 

 

Tristan does a double-take. She has to nearly yell over the fireworks. “What’d you say?” 

 

“Uh, I said fun. Fun. This is fun.” 

 

“Wait until the ashes get in your hair!” Belial shouts from his position against the wheel. 

 

“ _ What _ ?”

 

True to his word, tiny flakes of ash trickle from the sky as the fireworks reach their peak. The show ends with a massive display of the United States flag, which accompanies a thunderous boom that makes Peggy jump into Tristan’s side. She stays there until the cheering has stopped and the lights turn back on. An announcer comes over the speakers, announcing the start of the movie in twenty minutes. 

 

Tristan doesn’t move her arm from Peggy’s waist. “Well, how was that?” 

 

“I don’t know what to think,” Peggy says breathlessly. Tristan grins, clearly pleased with herself. Peggy smiles back. 

 

And Belial promptly ruins the moment. 

 

“You two should kiss,” he announces before walking off towards the stadium. 

 

Tristan glares at him as he walks away. “I hope you die!” she shouts after him. 

 

“You two have an interesting relationship,” Peggy notes.

 

“Do we?” Tristan reaches for the packet of glowsticks and pulls three out. 

 

“I think so,” Peggy says as Tristan cracks the glowsticks and violently waves them around, nearly whipping both of them in the face. It takes Peggy a moment to realize she’s embarrassed. “Do you two have a history together?” 

 

“Bel and I? Gods no.” Tristan shudders and starts clipping the glowsticks together to make a necklace. “He’s a fuckin’ mess. And did you forget I’m a huge lesbian?” She turns around and clips the glowsticks around Peggy’s neck. She begins making a bracelet next. 

 

Peggy slides her necklace up to rest as a crown. She watches Peggy crack the glowsticks with more . . . passion than usual. “Are you embarrassed by what he said?” she asks. 

 

“What, that? No.” 

 

“You’re a bad liar,” Peggy teases. “I wouldn’t expect that, coming from you.”

 

“Shut up.” 

 

Tristan drops the glowstick onto the ground. Peggy looks down and sees Tristan’s hands covered in the glowing liquid from the stick. She must have broken it on accident. Her hands are shaking. 

 

“Hey,” she says, casually weaving her fingers with Tristan’s, not bothering to avoid the liquid from the glowstick. “Don’t worry about what he said. I’m your beloved wife, remember?”

 

Tristan grumpily leans against Peggy’s shoulder. “At least we’ve gotten rid of your internalized homophobia.” 

 

“Smiley face.” 

 

“I hate you.” 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh god this took me forever to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on this episode of "what happened to the plot? i don't know."

Aeron collapses as soon as we rent our room.

 

I probably shouldn’t have let him drive. We only made it three hours in dead silence before he abruptly pulled over at a motel halfway hidden by the biggest Goodwill I’ve ever seen in my life. He hadn’t said anything when he robotically got out of the truck and paid for a room. And now he’s knocked out. And after about thirty minutes of pacing around the room, I can hardly think. It’s too quiet. 

 

It’s less than a minute’s walk to the Goodwill right beside the motel. Normally I despise interacting with others - too many people staring at me - but after being around Aeron for so long, I really need to see another human face. And preferably not one that’s trying to kill me. 

 

The Goodwill is probably the nicest one I’ve ever been to. And that’s saying a lot, I guess. I grew up poor, so Goodwill was like fucking designer for us. The cashiers knew us by name. Which is actually . . . kind of sad, now that I think about it. 

 

Trying not to feel too bad about abandoning Aeron in the motel, I aimlessly walk around for a while, trying to calm down and process everything. 

 

I didn’t tell Aeron that I recognized those vans, but I’m pretty certain he had some shred of an idea who they were. The SDSC - Study and Detainment of Supernatural Creatures. Or the SCP. Or, as Ben likes to call them, Those Shitty Bastards. I saw them a lot when I lived in the syndicate housing, pulling in and out and dropping off supplies occasionally. They had prisoner vans, ones that were so armored that they looked almost military. 

 

They swarmed Abernathy after Aeron destroyed it. The SDSC’s influence is stronger in the media. They have a method of control that’s dangerous to fuck around with.  _ They’re  _ dangerous. Even Elijah Sunderland, leader of the motherfucking Flatwood Clan, didn’t fuck with them. 

 

Aeron probably thinks the SDSC is after him. Which makes sense. He did technically kill upwards of two hundred people in Abernathy. Wasn’t his fault, but the magic was his, and he feels guilty enough. But no. I know better. They’re after me. Again. 

 

When I worked for Elijah and the Clan, I knew powerful people. I knew what businesses they were in. And the SDSC wanted that information, because they were working against Slenderman, and . . . some other group. The Family. 

 

“Excuse me.” 

 

I jump, knocking a hat from a shelf that I’d been shuffling mindlessly through. A tiny elderly lady is standing a few feet away, looking slightly mortified at my appearance when I turn around. I catch her taking a few steps back. 

 

“Uh, sorry,” I grumble, moving over so that she can squeeze past me. 

 

She doesn’t go out of the aisle. She pretends to be interested in a rack of sweaters behind me. I toss the hat back onto the shelf and quickly to go leave. Goddammit, she’s about to talk to me, isn’t she? 

 

“May I ask what happened?” the lady asks. When I stop and look at her over my shoulder, she motions to the side of my neck where my burn scars peek through my shirt. 

 

“I got . . . burned,” I say awkwardly. Hopefully she can’t see the gash on the side of my face, or the faint lines where I had a psychopathic episode and tried to carve a smile into my cheeks when I was fourteen. But I can tell she’s already looking. And at my hands, which constantly tremble because of all the nerve damage. I quickly tuck them into my pockets. 

 

I leave before she can say anything else, suddenly hyperaware of all the looks people are shooting me. I pull my hair out of its bun and let it hide my face. 

 

I’m about to leave the store when a small ball of a hideous mix of blue and neon green catches my attention. There’s a Furby sitting on the discount shelf next to the entrance, right next to a smushed cardboard box of sex toys and baby clothes. 

 

I try to walk past it. But the Furby beckons. 

 

* * *

 

 

Aeron’s awake when I get back to the motel with my single plastic bag. 

 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, looking like he woke up moments before I walked through the door. On one side his hair is plastered to his head. On the other, it’s sticking straight up. He still looks exhausted.

 

“Hope you’re not mad at me for temporarily abandoning you, amigo,” I say, bumping the door shut with my hip. I toss the keys onto a stool next to the TV stand. 

 

“Ugh,” is his response. 

 

“Fantastic. Because I don’t want to fight with you. Parents shouldn’t fight in front of their children.” 

 

It takes him a painfully long time to process my words. I enjoy the journey his face goes from realization, brief horror, to utter confusion. “Uh, what?” 

 

I pull the Furby from the bag by its ear. “We have a child now.” 

 

“What the fuck.” 

 

“I went to the store ‘cause I was bored and saw him,” I explain, gently placing the Furby on the bed beside of Aeron. He scoots away from it. “He’s hideous. No one’s gonna buy this thing, you know? So he’s ours now.”

 

Aeron rubs his face. “Why did you buy a Fur - how much was that thing?” 

 

“Fifty cents,” I lie. I threw the price tag down before I left the store. Aeron doesn’t need to know I wasted five dollars on an abandoned Furby. 

 

Aeron glares at me. 

 

“His name is Quakerman.” 

 

“I despise you with every cell in my body.” 

 

“If it makes you feel any better, I almost got lectured by an old woman on my scars,” I say lamely, falling down onto the bed between Quakerman and Aeron. “She asked about them while we were in the back looking at hats and shit and then again at the checkout line. Asked if I was messing around with matches. And then I walked outside and got smacked in the back of the neck by a cicada.” 

 

Aeron thinks for a moment, and then nods. “Yes, that does make feel better.” 

 

“Fantastic.” 

 

Aeron slowly settles down on the bed next to me, staring up at the ceiling. 

 

“How’re you feeling?” I ask him. 

 

“How are  _ you  _ feeling?” 

 

“Tired and depressed as always, but this isn’t about me. I didn’t lose my shit and then murder a bunch of people and fall asleep right after,” I say, looking over at him. He refuses to look away from the ceiling. I can’t fucking wait to ruin his whole day by telling him the SDSC is after me because I may or may not have past affiliations with a massive crime organization. 

 

Aeron shrugs. “I don’t know. I just feel . . . really tired.” 

 

I suddenly remember his whole vitamin thing - “You haven’t really eaten much. Doesn’t your magic need food or some shit? Don’t you need iron?” 

 

“My magic drains my iron, yes.” 

 

“Aeron. Eat.” 

 

“Haven’t really had the time, with people trying to murder us and all.” 

 

“And psychotic breaks?” 

 

“That, too,” he says miserably. 

 

I take a deep breath. Gotta soften the blow somehow - “Well, I’ll buy you a shitload of spinach and chocolate tomorrow. My mother used to make tofu. Maybe I can see if I remember how to. And I’ll drive.”

 

Aeron closes his eyes and sighs. “Great.” 

 

“When you’re feeling better,” I say slowly, “do you wanna talk about . . . everything? Try and make some sense of it?” 

 

“Sure.” 

 

“I’m very bad at -” 

 

“I know, Jeff.” Aeron nudges the back of my hand with his. “That’s what happens when you stay in your bedroom all the time inhaling energy drinks and drawing.” 

 

“I don’t draw.” 

 

“Yes you do. I saw you drawing me in the truck.” 

 

Oh, wonderful. Fuck. 

 

Aeron slips his fingers between mine and squeezes my hand. I don’t move. “It was nice. You’re  really good. My mother used to draw.” 

 

“You don’t talk about Anaïs very often. Why not?” 

 

“Not much to talk about. We didn’t do much.” Aeron goes quiet for a few moments. “She . . . didn’t really seem to care about me. When I was younger. I always did everything myself. I used to always get in trouble for forging her signature on school documents.”

 

“Yeah, I guess,” I say awkwardly. This is getting a bit too personal for me. “Margaret never went to school events ‘cause she couldn’t speak English well. And when she did, she’d always get stared at. Or have someone say some racist bullshit. And Peter was always in and out of prison. So I guess . . . I guess I get that. The whole absent parent thing.” 

 

Aeron laughs. “We all come from fucked up families, huh?” 

 

“Pretty much. I mean it takes a certain person to be willing to work for Slenderman,” I say. “I wouldn’t have left, if I had the choice. Even with how shitty my school treated me.” 

 

“What did you want to be?” he asks quietly. He squeezes my hand again. “Like . . . when you grew up.” 

 

“Astrobiology.” 

 

“Really?” he says incredulously. 

 

“Yeah. At first I was interested in zoology, and then I wanted to be a mortician, and then I wanted to be an astrophysicist. And then I found out that astrobiology was a thing, but . . .” But then I got acid poured on me. And then I got lit on fire. And then my house burned down and my brother died and I have no memory of it happening. And I lost everything. 

 

“I didn’t really . . . want to, after what happened,” I finish. “So now I guess . . . I don’t know. What about you?” 

 

“I was going to go to college for neuroscience. Don’t know which specific branch, since I never got that far. I took a general psych course during high school and . . . kinda just got interested in how the brain works. I wanted to be the first one to understand exactly how unconsciousness works.” Aeron pauses. “I was also interested in botany.”

 

“Oh, so you were a smart kid?” 

 

He snorts. “No, I was a dumbass. I would’ve failed in everything if it weren’t for . . .” 

 

“For what?” 

 

“For, uh . . . Eli Collins.” 

 

“The twink your aunt mentioned?” 

 

“You have good memory,” he notes blankly. 

 

“Yep. What about Eli?” 

 

“Well, we dated for a while. He helped me . . . And then we . . . Broke off. He felt like we weren’t really compatible. We stayed friends, though. Me, him, and Margarita. They’re the only friends I’ve ever really had.” I jump when Aeron rubs the back of my hand with his thumb. “Besides you and Tristan.” 

 

“ _ I’m  _ a friend?” 

 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

 

“You tried to kill me a few days ago.” 

 

“Correct,” he chimes. “ _ But _ \- you also opened up to me about what you wanted to do as a kid, and therefore we are now friends.” 

 

I grin stupidly up at the ceiling. “So you just completed an enemies to friends speedrun.” 

 

“I haven’t finished it yet. You still have to tell me about this.” His fingers slip up my sleeves and rest over my scars. 

 

“And then you’ll be done bothering me?” I ask wearily. 

 

“And then I’ll be done bothering you.” 

 

“Alright, fine.” His hand slides back down to mine. “I used to work for a crime lord named Elijah. The, uh, the Flatwood Clan. I was . . . pretty high up, I guess? They called me the Flatwoods Killer. But . . . I don’t know. I was dying.” 

 

Aeron abruptly looks over at me, eyes wide. “What?” 

 

“I got the point where I couldn’t eat and I was sick all the time. By the time Slenderman came to recruit me, I could hardly move.” Ugh. I remember that - I was so delirious at the time that I couldn’t get a single job done without butchering everyone in the place I was in. I think I still have the bloodstained white jacket I always wore somewhere back at the mansion. “EJ found out I was severely malnourished or something, and my organs were starting to shut down.”

 

“Fuck,” Aeron breathes. 

 

“But uh, yeah. I couldn’t eat solid food for like . . . a few months. Had to drink everything through a straw. And my eyesight was ruined. I had to get fluids all the time, and you know I hate needles. Kept throwing up everything.” I swallow. “And eventually I couldn’t take it, so . . . I tried to kill myself.” 

 

“More than once?” 

 

“Yeah, a few times. After that I just gave up. Slenderman knows everything and I was placed under house arrest, so it’s not like I could do anything after that.” 

 

Aeron rolls over and props his head up on his elbow. “Are you feeling better now?” 

 

“I’m fine now. Sadie and LJ helped out a lot. And the rats in the green -” 

 

“The  _ what _ ?” 

 

“The rats in the green -”

 

“There are  _ rats  _ in the mansion?” 

 

“No, in the green -” 

 

“Holy fuck that’s so nasty.” 

 

“ _ The greenhouse _ .” 

 

“Oh, that’s a bit better. Why didn’t you just say so?” 

 

I elbow him in the ribs and he starts laughing. “Fuck you.” 

 

Aeron swats my hand away and rolls back over, looking up at the popcorn ceiling. “Ah. C’est agréable.” 

 

“Mm. Yeah. You’re not trying to set me on fire, for once.” 

 

“Too drained to.” 

 

“Well, I’ll see what I can do about that,” I say tiredly. Aeron shifts closer to me. “I think I still remember how to boil water. But I’m tired, so I’ll have to do that later.” 

 

Aeron kicks his shoes off and flings them halfway across the room and settles on his side, facing me. I recall something about EJ saying how Aeron always ends up in the strangest positions while he’s sleeping. I should probably move so I don’t get kicked in the face. 

 

But I’m comfortable. Maybe staying here next to him isn’t too bad of an idea. 

 

“We’re gonna find your mom,” Aeron mumbles. I look over. “And we’re gonna find Peggy.” 

 

“Yeah. We are.” 

 

“Together, yeah?” 

 

“Yeah.” 

  
  


* * *

 

 

I wake up before Jeff. 

 

I immediately feel a burning sensation in the center of my chest that slowly spreads to the rest of my limbs - like I’m on fire inside. It stops in the middle of my throat and at the tips of my fingers. I’m too weak to move more than lifting my head up to see if Jeff’s awake. 

 

I’m lying almost completely on top of him. That’s not much of a surprise, I can’t stay still when I’m asleep. We’re no longer holding hands - that was real, wasn’t it? - and I have my arm draped over his chest. 

 

“Wake up,” I grumble into his ear. 

 

Jeff shifts. I blow on his face. 

 

“What the hell do you want?” he groans, not opening his eyes. “And why are you on top of me? I can’t breathe.” 

 

“I’ll do you one better. I can’t move.” 

 

That gets him awake and alert. He grabs my waist without pushing me off of him and I try not to choke. “ _ Wha _ t? You aren’t paralyzed, are you?” 

 

“No. I can feel everything, I’m just . . . I can’t move.” I manage enough strength to pull my arm up and lift my head. “I think my magic might be trying to kill me.” 

 

“Oh, fuck.” Jeff pulls me onto his lap and all my blood rushes south. “Can you sit up?” 

 

“If I could, I would have,” I snap. 

 

“I -” 

 

He’s interrupted by a loud banging outside. I tense, unintentionally digging my nails into his shoulders. I hear several vehicles getting closer and then turning off. There’s light through our curtains. Whoever’s outside is parked directly in front of our room. 

 

Jeff pushes me off of him and I nearly topple to the floor. 

 

“Asshole,” I gasp. 

 

“Hush.” He shoves one of the curtains aside, glares through the window, and then quickly snaps it shut. Then he reaches underneath his pant leg and pulls out a military knife. And then I see him quickly patting himself down, and after a second I realize he’s checking himself for weapons. 

 

“You slept beside of me,” I say slowly, “with knives on your person?” 

 

Jeff shuffles hastily through his bag and pulls out a Glock. He checks for ammo. “Uh, yeah. They all have sheathes, don’t worry.” 

 

“Are the vans outside?” I start to feel panicky. I can’t do much if I can hardly move, and I’ve never actually seen Jeff fight besides our lessons at the lake. “Jeff, you aren’t gonna fight them all alone, are you? They have guns -  _ Jeffrey Hodek! _ ” 

 

Jeff tears his jacket off, wraps it around his waist, and puts his hair into a bun. 

 

“You’re welcome to watch,” he says calmly. 

 

And then he opens the front door. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Goddamn. 

 

There are two vans. You’d think they’d be more inconspicuous, but no,  _ someone  _ decided to paint  _ SDSC _ in big, brilliant black lettering on the side of the vehicles. I see a bearded man wearing familiar black clothing stepping out of the first van. I can tell from here that he’s wearing a bulletproof vest and is probably armed to the teeth. 

 

“Jeff,” I hear Aeron whispering behind me. He’s panicking. 

 

“Good morning!” I say cheerfully. 

 

The man recognizes me immediately. So much for trying to be friendly, I guess. I hear metal and boots on gravel as men slowly file out of the van. Three of them - not including the first one - are carrying guns. I don’t recognize them, but they look close enough to AR-15’s that I know I’m fucked. 

 

I hear Aeron screaming something right before I fire, putting a bullet straight between the leader’s eyes. All of my thoughts escape my head, and I move without really thinking. I haven’t killed in a long time. 

 

_ Be a machine _ , I recall someone back at the syndicate saying.  _ Don’t think. Just act _ . 

 

I slip a knife into the palm of my hand and slit a woman’s throat, using her falling body as a shield. I feel the knockback from the bullet that hits her instead of me and shove her aside. The men are all wearing helmets - throwing knives won’t be too useful. 

 

I duck behind the van and check myself for weapons again - five throwing knives strapped to my thighs, some on my ankles and wrists, three knives in my back pockets, a military knife on my left hip, and my gun. 

 

The men run around the van on either side. I duck and roll between the closest one’s legs and slice his Achilles’ tendon, kicking his gun out of his hands before he can fire.

 

I feel heat. 

 

I don’t pay attention to the fire slowly licking its way towards the van. I flip my army knife around and sink it underneath a man’s helmet, feeling the warmth of his blood dripping down my knife onto my wrist. I hear gunfire, and the gravel shoots up beside me, only missing me by a few inches. 

 

Two knives I let loose meet their targets: One on a man’s hip and the other on the hand holding his gun. I rush towards him and grab the arm holding the weapon and bring my knee up. I don’t let go until I hear the satisfying snap of bone and drag my knife across his throat in one fluid motion. 

 

I hear Aeron screaming. 

 

“Stay out of this!” I shout, elbowing one of the men in the face. His helmet flies off and I’m met with a pissed off pair of green eyes.

 

I flick a knife into my hand and sink it into his face, beneath his chin right up through the back of his lip. I close my mouth when blood sprays my face. 

 

But Aeron’s already making his way across the parking lot, surrounded in flames and looking quite upset. 

 

A sharp pain shoots up my side into the center of my chest, and I see a blade glinting in the man’s hand. I toss him backwards into a line of fire from Aeron and wince when he screams and starts writhing as his flesh burns off his bones. Aeron’s flames are so hot they’re blue. 

 

“Don’t do that, you fucking idiot!” I shout. Too late. 

 

The first van explodes, and the gas inside makes a second, much bigger, explosion. 

 

I’m almost knocked off my feet. I manage to roll away from the second van in time. I’m only hit with a piece of shrapnel when it explodes. Not normal - definitely rigged for this specific occasion. They were probably hoping Aeron would be close enough for the explosion to kill him. 

 

Instead it kills the remaining men, turning them into bloody slop across the road. 

 

Aeron is still screaming. 

 

I stagger to my feet, feeling blood dripping down my stomach where I got cut. Not stabbed, thank God. I look around for Aeron - can’t really make out anything through the heavy smoke in the air, but I see him a few yards away, on his knees, scratching at his face. It smells familiar. 

 

“Shit,” I hiss, hurrying to his side as fast as I can without falling over. I still can’t hear much over his agonized screaming and the ringing in my ears, but I think . . . there’s someone outside. Shouting. 

 

I feel the heat from him before I get anywhere close. His face is bleeding from where he’s scratched at himself and I see those familiar black lines etched into his skin near his eyes. The tips of his fingers are completely black. They look like he dipped them in oil. 

 

“Rowan,” I say. 

 

He stops.

 

“Are you alright?” I gently drop to my knees and reach out. The heat quickly dissipates and he breathes out, trying to ground himself. “Come back.” 

 

“I’m fine,” he croaks. “I panicked. I’m sorry.” 

 

“It’s alright. Can I touch you?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

I wrap his arm around my shoulder and weakly stand up. The pain in my side has dulled out to a numb throbbing. It’ll hurt like hell in a few hours, once the adrenaline’s worn off. 

 

I kick our door back open and stumble through. Aeron presses his face against my neck and clings to me. 

 

“Vas a estar bien,” I say quietly, after a moment of standing in the center of our room holding him. 

 

“I’m okay,” he breathes. “Let’s just go.”

 

“I’ll drive.”

 

Aeron refuses to let go of me, even when I’m quickly throwing everything into the truck. I hear police sirens and the wail of a firetruck. And Aeron’s still hot. 

 

I help him get into the truck and run over to the other side, trying not to glance at the bodies of the men I’d killed. I haven’t done that in a long time. Almost forgot what I was capable of. Cedar taught me well. But my whole body is shaking, so bad that the truck jerks a few times when I take off in the opposite direction of the sirens. 

 

“Did we get everything?” I ask. I try to keep my voice steady so Aeron won’t panic, but it’s not working.

 

“Yes.” Aeron sounds far-off. He looks calmer than I am, at any rate, so I take that as a good thing. “We should . . . stop somewhere. I still . . . can’t move.” Damn. It’s an effort for him to even speak. 

 

“We’ll stop at a gas station or something,” I say. “And then Walmart.”

 

“Why Walmart?” 

 

“You’ll see.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

I still remember Slenderman scolding me.  _ I gave you those teeth. Use them. _

 

Fine. 

 

No one hears Brian Thomas’s cut-off scream when my iron teeth rip through his arteries. 

 

I throw Brian against the bloodied dirt and coldly watch him writhe for a moment. I’ve already gotten everything I need out of him. All the information on Peggy, why Slenderman wanted Aeron. 

 

The interrogation had been in the library, with the runes protecting us from Slenderman’s omniscience. Sadie knocked Brian out, LJ interrogated him. 

 

_ You won’t save her _ , Brian had snarled.  _ That whore will be long gone by the time you get to her corpse.  _

 

I slam his head against the rocks. 

 

And again. 

 

And again. 

 

And again, until the river water turns red and I can feel the warmth of his blood and brain matter through my jeans. I hear Sadie’s terrified scream on the top of the hill. I ignore it. I keep slamming him against the rock until his face is mangled beyond recognition. 

 

Once I’m finished, trembling and panting and standing over a mess of gore and flesh, I shakily wipe my hands off and look up at the hill, at LJ and Sadie’s horrified faces. 

 

I dump his body into the river, along with his black and red mask.

 

LJ and Sadie are waiting for me on the top of the hill, their faces stricken. 

 

“Come on,” I say coldly. “We have work to do.” 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I GOT A TUMBLR. Go follow dusttodust-incorrect for d2d-related . . . posts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song that jeff plays on the ukulele is here: https://youtu.be/iDuvHmvDYeU

I wake up with a jolt. 

 

I stare at the scenery passing by in the window. Tall buildings. Cars. We’re on a highway, next to a busy city, it looks like. And I still can’t hardly move. But something smells nice. 

 

“You awake?” Jeff sounds more cheery. “I was going to stop by a gas station and get you something to eat, but uh, you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you up. So I went to Wendy’s.”

 

Fuck. I’m tired. Everything feels like low resolution. I force myself to look over. Jeff’s drumming his fingers to the faint Green Day song on the radio, and a Wendy’s bag sits between us. It looks like he bought two coffees, both of them untouched. Quakerman sits in a small dip in the dash, staring at me with dead, unblinking eyes. There’s a small bead bracelet around his neck that says  _ Bad Bitch _ . 

 

Everything seems strangely nostalgic. I don’t know how long I was asleep, but Jeff’s appearance has changed. He gave himself an undercut and wears the longest parts of his hair in a bun. He’s wearing his glasses. And his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. I can see his scars, odd patterns of scarred flesh, twisting all the way up to his thin wrist and fingers.

 

“You should wear your glasses more often,” I say, summoning enough strength to take one of the coffees and examine it. Black, with a couple of sugar packets lying in the center of the cupholder. 

 

“I’m only wearing them because I’m driving.” There’s something unsaid there, but I decide to leave it alone. He looks content. I don’t want to ruin it for him by being annoying. 

 

“Start eating,” he says. “I’m not going to carry you anywhere. And if we’re being followed again, I’d rather not have to kill people by myself.” 

 

I sip at the coffee. “That doesn’t bother you? Killing people?” 

 

“Usually it does. But they were, you know, trying to shoot me.” 

 

“Fair point. Can I ask about Quakerman’s necklace?” 

 

“Had some free time.” 

 

“Mhm. And you just, what, carry beads around?” 

 

“Yep. Never know when you might have, as I said, free time.” 

 

I laugh. “You’re so weird.” 

 

“I think I’m fun.” 

 

“You’re insufferable.” 

 

“Hey, don’t call me insufferable. I don’t know what it means.” 

 

I shuffle through the bags and quickly realize that Jeff must have at least spent $50 on all of this. And he somehow managed to get everything that’s relatively high in iron - as well as a box of chocolate in a Walmart bag. I must have really been out of it, if he had time to go to motherfucking  _ Walmart _ while I was out. 

 

“Is that where you got the beads?” I ask, poking through the bag. 

 

“No, actually. I really did have the beads on me. Got some string, though. And hair dye.”

 

I freeze. There’s two boxes of Cotton Candy Manic Panic. 

 

“You bought pink hair dye?” I say incredulously.

 

“It’s an option. There’s a few more bottles in there somewhere, if pink isn’t your thing. I just thought, you know, we should probably change up our appearances so we don’t get our assholes ripped in half by the SDSC. And we’re undoubtedly going to be on the news.” As he talks, I pull out a few more bottles of hair dye. Siren’s Song? Just say cyan. Jesus Christ. And Atomic Turquoise. And a . . . Pastel-Izer?

 

Jeff continues; “I heard on the radio a couple of hours ago that the motel we were at caught on fire from the vans right as the police got there. Half of it burned to the ground. They’re questioning a terror attack, since . . . you know. Your fire isn’t normal fire, and they were having a hard time putting it out. But the  _ normal _ fire, the fire from the vans -” 

 

“Jeff.” I choose Siren’s Song. “I really,  _ really  _ don’t want to hear about how I burned down a motel.” 

 

He nods. 

 

“So what does this one do?” I hold up the pastel one. 

 

“That makes the color lighter. Like a . . . pastel.” 

 

“Ah. Makes sense.” I put everything back and start eating before I completely lose control of my limbs. Jeff doesn’t seem to mind, just hums along to the radio and refuses to look away from the road. “Have you ever dyed your hair? You seem oddly knowledgeable about it.” 

 

Jeff huffs. I don’t know if it’s considered a laugh or not. “I’ve dyed my hair plenty of times. Have you actually looked at it? Shit’s damaged beyond repair. Gonna have to shave it all off one day.” 

 

I’m not sure why that surprises me. “You and dyed hair? What colors?” 

 

“Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I started out with blond. Then dyed it white, then went back to my normal color, and then dyed it white again, and then pink, and then green, and then this ugly shade of orange - it was supposed to be red - and then a couple different shades of blue. And then I tried doing this gradient thing? With gray and blue. Ended up just looking like I just dip-dyed it in Kool-Aid. And then I did half white half red.” 

 

“So like. Todoroki.” 

 

“Goddammit! Who the fuck is that?” 

 

I start laughing and almost choke on my biscuit. “How many - how many people called you Todoroki?” 

 

“Too fucking many.” 

 

“So how long did you leave your hair?” I ask. 

 

“As long as it was before.” 

 

So . . . a few inches below his shoulders. I’m not sure how that counts as really changing his appearance - but honestly, I can see why he’d struggle with that. It’s hard to cover scars as rough as his. But he does look different in the glasses. 

 

“Last time I had short hair was my Todoroki era,” he says dryly. 

 

“Are there any pictures from it? I’d like to see you with dyed hair.” I finish the biscuit and toss the wrapper back into the bag. It’s honestly taking every inch of pride in me not to tear into the food like a starved dog. “I think I’ve only ever seen you with that weird mullet thing you’ve got going on.” 

 

“It’s not a mullet.” 

 

“Not anymore.” 

 

“It wasn’t before!” 

 

“Long in the back, bangs in the front? That’s a mullet, Jeff.” 

 

He frowns. “Shut up and eat your food. I have to tell you something that’s going to ruin your day.” 

 

I unwrap another biscuit and roll my eyes. “You love ruining my day, don’t you?” 

 

“Well, it’s all I’m good for.” 

 

I feel a pang of guilt at that. Before I can say anything, Jeff continues talking, “I’m fairly certain that the SDSC isn’t after you. They don’t know what you look like, even with the images that were on the news. They’re . . . coming after me.” 

 

I don’t say anything. 

 

“I used to work for this crime organization called the Flatwood Clan,” he continues. Jeff keeps his eyes on the road. He’s gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. “I knew some things that the SDSC wanted to know, and that made me a target, and . . . Elijah was sort of a leader, right up there with Cedar, but Cedar didn’t work for the Flatwoods.” 

 

“Is that why you were in syndicate housing?” I ask. I remember someone - EJ or Slenderman - saying something about that. That Jeff used to work for some organization that offered him housing, and that’s where Slenderman found him around nine years ago. And, according to what Jeff told me earlier, he was half dead when Slenderman found him. 

 

“I told you I was working for them earlier,” he says thickly. “But I didn’t tell you about Cedar Belfaguer. He’s the reason I got into the Upsilon Project.” 

 

I stare at him in shock. “The Upsilon Project? Wasn’t that -” 

 

“Yeah, it was a breeding program,” Jeff spits. “I didn’t know that until later, when Cedar and I blew the whole place up. But it was led by the SDSC. They were trying to create monsters of their own. What they ended up creating were barely functioning piles of flesh with brains.” 

 

“And you were part of this . . . how? Why would the SDSC be after you for that?” 

 

“Because I found out about the Family. Where they operated, who was leading them.” 

 

“The what?” 

 

I can tell that Jeff’s mind is running a thousand thoughts a second. “The Family funded the whole operation. They were trying to c . . .” 

 

He stops talking abruptly, and I see his expression shifting into one of horror. 

 

“Jeff? What were they doing?” 

 

“They were creating - those things.” 

 

“The skinwalkers?” 

 

“Yeah. I didn’t think about it until recently, it was so long ago, but . . . the other day, I remembered something that Cedar told me. That the Family is a religious organization, and they’re building an army to defeat the Antichrist, or something like that. And I got to thinking about how . . . how what I saw in those labs kind of look like the skinwalkers I saw on that police footage.” 

 

“And what else?” 

 

“I thought about . . . about how the SDSC knows that I know where the Family is. And how . . . Tristan told us that Peggy disappeared. And how her family was religious. Aeron,” he says thinly, “Peggy went missing in Pennsylvania That’s where they are. The Family.” 

 

I stare at him for a long time. He still won’t look away from the road. 

 

“Jeff,” I say slowly, “Where in Pennsylvania?” 

 

“Barmwich. That’s where Peggy went missing, back in ‘06. A year before the Family moved out to Idaho. And then their labs started spreading out from the main headquarters. They started doing more experiments, and it caught Slenderman’s attention.” 

 

Pennsylvania. Halfway across the country. And Idaho, several hours away from Margaret Hodek. 

 

“And you didn’t tell us any of this?” I hiss. “Tristan’s been looking for Peggy for  _ years _ . If she’s with the Family -” 

 

“Then she’s dead,” he says curtly. 

 

“What?” 

 

“The necklace you found? That belonged to Peggy. And they didn’t create monsters out of nothing.” 

 

I grit my teeth and sit back.

 

“We can tell Tristan,” Jeff says, “She’s closer to Idaho. And it’s up to her what she does with that information.” 

 

“That’s a good idea. So what are we going to do about us being chased?” 

 

“I don’t know. I thought maybe . . . changing our appearances might help. The SDSC will probably put two and two together and find out you’re the same guy who blew up Abernathy,” I wince at that, “And then they’ll realize you and I are working together, and they’ll probably be a little pissy about that.” 

 

That gives me a thought; “How often do Slenderman’s people work together?” 

 

Jeff shrugs. “Hell if I know. I know that most jobs don’t really require two people, but sometimes Slenderman has bigger jobs posted that are gone within a couple of hours. I know Zero and Puppet always work together. Whenever Sadie used to take jobs, she’d usually do it with LJ. And Tim and Brian used to work together, but they don’t anymore. Brian stopped kissing Slenderman’s ass and  _ actually _ started supporting him, and Tim didn’t.” 

 

“But Tim’s . . . scarily obedient.” 

 

“Tim’s always high off his ass on the drugs Slenderman forces him to take,” he says sourly. “It’s to control his, uh, issues. I’m not sure what he has. But Slenderman lies to EJ, and so Tim always ends up taking like twice the actual amount he’s supposed to.” 

 

“Do you think Sadie knows more about all of this?” 

 

“Probably not. She would have told Tristan.” 

 

I sit back in my seat and start on a fourth biscuit. We haven’t spoken to Tristan since we left, what, three or four days ago? I have no idea what she planned to do while we were gone. Look for Peggy, undoubtedly, but  _ how _ ? It’s not like she knows right now what Jeff knows. 

 

My magic slowly fills the empty space in the center of my chest and spreads to the tips of my fingers. 

 

“Magic’s back,” I announce. 

 

“That’s good.” 

 

“Where exactly are we going?” 

 

Jeff just smiles placidly. 

 

“Jeff?” 

 

“I am about to waste every bit of my money on a hotel room,” he says, sounding depressed and disconnected with reality all at once. 

 

I frown. “How long have you been driving?” 

 

“Several hours. We’re about fifteen minutes from Las Vegas.” 

 

I stare at him. “Las Vegas.” 

 

“Yes. I accidentally, somehow, got on US-95 a few hours ago and realized that it takes us to Las Vegas, and I thought, ‘Hey, this week’s been stressful as hell, let’s get drunk in Vegas.’ I realize now that it was a terrible decision, but.” 

 

“ _ But? _ ” 

 

Jeff thinks for a moment. “Yeah, I got nothing.” 

 

True to his word, about fifteen minutes later, I can see massive buildings in the distance. I sit up in my seat and stare out the window at the lines and lines of houses we pass. It takes a good twenty minutes just to leave the residential area and get to the stores and hotels and whatever else there is. Jeff pulls out onto North Main St. and finds a hotel. 

 

“Hotel and casino,” I read. “This is going to be really fucking expensive.” 

 

“Too late to back down now. I don’t feel like scouring all of fucking Las Vegas.” 

 

“I’ve never been to Las Vegas.” 

 

“And I’d never been to France. Guess this month is just full of new experiences.” Jeff pulls roughly into the parking lot and cuts the truck off. He stares out of the window for a while, and then  _ finally _ looks at me. 

 

“You are  _ not  _ going to burn this casino down,” he says seriously. 

 

“I promise I won’t.” 

 

Jeff fixes me with a look and gets out of the truck. I follow him, shoving Quakerman into my gym bag and throwing my other one around my shoulder. 

 

The moment my feet hit the concrete, my breath is knocked away. 

 

I’ve never been in a big city before. Riquewihr is the biggest place I’ve probably ever seen, but this? This is a hundred times bigger. Louder. Jeff grabs my hand and I don’t think twice before I lace my fingers around his, letting him tug me through the crowded streets towards the front of the hotel. I can’t even think. There’s so much to look at. So many cars and people on the sidewalks . . . 

 

“Stay with me,” I hear Jeff saying as we round the sidewalk and come up to the front of the hotel, the words California Hotel & Casino in massive sparkling red signs. I don’t even get to read all the signs posted outside before Jeff tugs me in. 

 

I’m met with a blast of cool air and a warm atmosphere. There are so many people in the lobby, and I can’t help but listen in on the conversations while I stand nervously behind Jeff. Someone’s upset about the price of their room. $120 for one night. That’s . . . not too bad, I guess. 

 

I grip Jeff’s hand as he steps up and books a room. We get a lot of stares from the people in the lobby. I guess being in a massive city still doesn’t mean I won’t get stared at. I don’t pay attention to how much the room costs or even where we’re going until Jeff shoves me into an elevator. 

 

“The hell was that?” he asks moodily, pressing against the wall as the doors ding and slide shut. 

 

“What?” 

 

“You dissociated for a solid twenty minutes.” 

 

“Oh. Yeah, that happens when I’m overwhelmed.” I watch the numbers on the panel light up as we ascend. “How much was it?” 

 

“I booked three nights. So around four hundred. We got a single bed, so you better not light me on fire.” 

 

I nod. “And what are we gonna do for three nights in Las Vegas?”

 

Jeff shrugs. “I felt like riding around tonight. Try and clear my head. But first we’re dying your hair.” 

 

“Sounds good to me.” 

 

We reach our room after wandering hopelessly around the hallways for a while. Jeff unlocks the door and tucks the keys into his back pocket. “Well, let’s hope there isn’t any mold, at least,” he says hopefully, before swinging the door open. 

 

I suck in a breath. 

 

The room is definitely bigger than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in, even if it’s still relatively small. The bed takes up most of the room, but there’s a huge flatscreen TV that I seriously doubt we’re going to use and way too many mirrors for my comfort. 

 

For some reason, my stomach twists when I look at the bed. 

 

“Okay,” I say, forcefully pushing my magic back down before I get too excited, “so now what?” 

 

“Now what?” Jeff repeats, tossing his bags onto the floor. “I guess now we dye your hair. You sure you want to?” 

 

“Yeah, I’m certain. Figured I should change it up a little bit, anyways. Don’t think white really suits me.” I follow Jeff into the bathroom and he nods towards the sink. 

 

“I think it does,” he says, and I ignore how my chest burns. “Are you allergic to anything?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“You might need to wash your hair first.” Jeff picks up a strand of my hair and winces. “Yeah, you need a shower. I’ll get everything ready.” 

 

“Can’t we just wash my hair in the sink?” 

 

“Rowan. Take a damn shower.” 

 

“Fine.” 

 

I don’t bother noting the fact that the doors are almost see-through. I doubt Jeff will give a shit either way. I wash my hair as fast as possible, listening to his advice on not using conditioner, and dry it off with a few puffs of heat. 

 

Jeff walks into the bathroom wearing a pair of gloves as I’m slipping my shirt on and tosses me a bottle of Vaseline. I frown. “Why do you have a full tub of Vaseline?” 

 

“You never know when you might need it,” he says casually, popping the cap off the hair dye bottle. 

 

“O . . . kay.” 

 

“Sit down. You wanted this one?” He holds up the bottle that says Siren’s Song. I nod. “Okay. I’m gonna mix it with some of the pastel shit. I don’t think your hair’s gonna agree with a darker color. You like pastel blue?” 

 

“Cyan, you mean?” 

 

“It’ll be a little lighter. You’ll look . . . what the word?” Jeff stares at me with a thoughtful squint. “Lolita. Oh, God. You’re gonna look like a lolita.” 

 

I snort. “Yeah, like you’re gonna get me into anything lacy.” 

 

“I think you’d look great in something lacy.” 

 

My face burns. “Oh.”  _ Stop it, heart, you traitorous bastard. _

 

Jeff mixes the colors together and starts separating parts of my hair, tying little ponytails with rubber bands. “God,” he grumbles, “I never realized you have so much fucking hair.” 

 

“I try extra hard not to burn it all off.” 

 

“Could do with some thinning out, Rowan.” 

 

I press down a smile. “So you’re calling me Rowan, all of a sudden?” 

 

“If you don’t mind. I like it better than Aeron.” 

 

“I don’t mind.” I close my eyes and lean back in the chair he dragged from the living room. No one’s messed with my hair since my last day with Anaïs. It feels nice. 

 

“Sorry if I get some of this dye on your shirt,” Jeff says. 

 

“It’s fine. It’s an old shirt.” I can barely feel him brushing it into my hair, as if he’s taking extra caution to be gentle. “Hey, you’re not gonna pull my hair,” I say. 

 

“Sorry. I just knew you didn’t like people messing with your hair.” 

 

“Mm. It’s fine. I can tolerate it when it’s you.” 

 

Jeff starts undoing some of the ponytails and brushing the dye onto it. “We can try and contact Tristan tonight. I guess I should tell her everything I know.” 

 

“If she doesn’t answer, we can try to leave her a message,” I suggest. 

 

“Yeah. And then we can fuck around. Have fun for the first time since we left the mansion.” 

 

I lean back into his touch and huff. “I think we’ve been having fun. Besides yesterday, because yesterday was a shitshow.” 

 

“That was the day before yesterday.”

 

“What.” 

 

“You were out for a day.” 

 

I try not to let that bother me. “Alright, then the day before yesterday.  _ That  _ was a shitshow. But before that . . . I think I was having fun.” 

 

I see Jeff raising a brow in the mirror. “What exactly was fun about any of the days we’ve been on this trip?” 

 

“Well, the day we left, you drank a whole thing of Benadryl,” I list. “It was stressful when it was happening, sure, but now that it was a while ago, it was kinda funny. We argued about dumb shit, but not like in an angry way. That was fun. Being trapped with an idiot in a truck for several days has been a new experience. A fun one, too, I think. I blew up a fucking van. We’ve figured out what could have happened to Peggy. And now I’m getting my hair dyed by someone who accidentally turned himself into Shoto Todoroki. And you also adopted a Furby.” 

 

Jeff stays quiet. 

 

“I think this whole trip has been fun,” I finish. “Getting to the point where I don’t want to kill you every second of my life. Sharing personal shit with you. Felt good to get all that off my chest. And it was nice getting to know more about you.” 

 

He still doesn’t say anything. His face is red. 

 

“I think,” I say slowly, “that when all of this passes, I don’t really want to go back to the mansion.” 

 

Jeff swallows. “Me neither. Don’t have much of a choice, though, do we?” 

 

“Of course we do. We just . . . don’t go back. Easy as that.” 

 

“Alright. But what do we do?” 

 

I shrug. “Rent a house? I’ve always wondered what it’s like working at a metaphysical store. You like cats? We can get a cat.” 

 

“Only if you agree to name it Dr. Phil.” 

 

I laugh. “Fine. Dr. Phil. Maybe when we meet your mom, she’ll . . . she’ll help us.” 

 

Jeff’s jaw tightens. “Or maybe she won’t want anything to do with me.” 

 

“I doubt that.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

“I used to think my mother was the same way, but . . . I don’t know. My mother used to say ‘God first.’ She was super religious, even when her whole church hated her. But I know that even with how religious she was, she’d never love God as much as she loves me. Your mother isn’t any different. Trust me.” 

 

Jeff finishes my hair and takes his gloves off. He doesn’t talk about his mother anymore. “Well, I’m done. Just let that sit for thirty minutes to an hour or so, and then we’ll rinse it off with cold water. And . . . it should be done. It’ll last longer, since your hair’s so thick.” He taps the side of my head for extra measure. 

 

“Mm. I don’t mind.” I rise from the seat and crack my joints with a wince. “So I’m gonna have blue hair now. I think I’ll get more stares than before.” 

 

Jeff shrugs. “I guess we’re a pretty odd-looking couple.” 

 

“I think we give off perfect amounts of chaotic energy,” I say. Ben had said something similar a few months back. That Jeff radiates chaotic dumbass energy. I’d been confused about it before, but now that I’ve witnessed him drinking a whole bottle of Benadryl, adopting a Furby without second thought, and heard the story of him accidentally turning himself into an anime character, I think I get it. He  _ is  _ a dumbass. I’d never have thought that a year or two ago, though. Jeff always seemed like that weird, oddly hot mysterious guy you see in like . . . Riverdale-esque TV shows. 

 

I sit on the bed and watch Jeff rummage through the things in his bags until he finds his ukulele, covered in stickers and bandaids and cracked and scuffed around certain places. It looks like the neck is being held together with Scotch tape. 

 

He experimentally strums each of the strings, and then starts playing. 

 

I open my mouth to say something, but he hits the chorus of whatever song he’s playing, and my mouth just hangs open in shock. I wasn’t aware he was so good. Wonder why he never mentioned it to anyone that he could play the ukulele. 

 

He taps his foot as he plays, completely unaware that I’m staring until one of the strings snap. 

 

“Aw,” is all he says. 

 

“You didn’t tell me you were so good at the ukulele,” I say, almost accusatory. 

 

Jeff shrugs and starts messing with his string. “I didn’t think it was really necessary.” 

 

“You’re so good though.”  

 

“Not really.” He lifts the ukulele up and the string bounces, smacking him in the eye. “I’m gonna. Fix this.” 

 

“And then we go ride around? I wanna see everything.” 

  
“Sure. We can sneak into the museum, it’ll be fun.” 

 

I smile, watching him wrestle with the ukulele strings. “It’s a date, then.” 

 

“It’s a date.” 


	23. Chapter 23

~~~~

Topher Gros jerks when the iron door swings open.

 

He doesn’t open his eyes, but he knows who it is immediately from the cold taps of boot heels on the marble floor. He cracks his eyes open, moaning at the onslaught of white light in the bleak room. The woman standing before him is dressed in all black, her frosty eyes taking in his butchered form with a single glance before she leans against the single gray table, relaxed and calculating.

 

_ O Lord, Jesus Christ, Redeemer and Savior, forgive my sins, just as You forgave Peter’s denial and those who crucified You _ . Topher squeezes his eyes shut. 

 

**_DGGBUTCFBWGAYJWPBUS_ **

 

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**G̷̖̰͒̐Ö̴̧̱̰͓̠̼̬́͊̍͛̾̌͗́̉̿͘͠͝A̶̧̧̝̞̲̩̤̻͖̜̝̳̼͉̎͊̆̃͆͜W̵̧̡̧̛̥͔̫̗͉͕͈̞̟̼̫̦͑̂͘͠Ǎ̴̙̲Y̵̢̱̜͉̮͎͕͊̒̉͋͒̾̔̐̈́̈́Ģ̶̛̯͓͈̭̖͊̉̀̉̋̐͗̊̽̄̓͠͝Ǫ̴̨̢̩̦͉͍͇͇̰̪̖̮̿̈́̈́͛͊͜͝Å̵̛̳͕̖̻̼̍͑̈́͗͘W̶̮̬̭͖̿̈́̄̍̈́̚̕͜A̷̧̩͉͓̣̦̝͘͜Ÿ̶̩̰́̔̽̒̀G̶̡̛̠͉̥̦̒̄͛̌̈́͑̊̂̿͂͂͊O̶̡̢̝̗̳̣͚̬̫̽̍̿̆̈́̓̌͗̍̄̚̕͝͠A̸̢̯͇̘̞͉̋Ẅ̸̲̠͔̬̈́̾̉̓̉̓̈̃͛̄͠A̶̯̞͚͓̹̱̣̬͚̺̋̽͑̊̈̎̈́̑͒̓̇Y̵̩̝͔̰͉̹̗̗̟͎̫̝͛̄̀̏̍͒̃͌̍̔̍́̒̌G̷̥̤̼̫̪͚̣̩̟͉̪͉̯̬̙̾͆͌̐̅̊̊̂͗͊̐͝͠O̵̧̞̖̲̎̏̓̑͐͑̀̈A̶̡̧̮͕͈̱̮̗̞͇̫̬̥̾̽̉̐̉̒̿̂̃̓̚̚͜͠Ẇ̵̨̧̤̤̘̠̲̖̄̎̒̂͘͝A̶͓̯̠͚̖̫̲̬̲̠͛Y̴̱̦̺̣̼̟͓̙̠̓̄̽̑͋͛͋̐̚͜͜͝G̷̨̢̛͕̘͙͇̮̙̤̩̫̘̈́̒̊̓ͅƠ̸͓̤̄̿̿͌̏̌̎̃͆͠͝A̷̱̬̙̜͈̮̣͍͂͊̄̄̓̈̿̃͋͋̌ͅW̶̯͇̗̫̙̱̗̓̈́̋͋̈̅̉̐͘͠ͅḀ̴̢̨̧̢̮͓̺̹͈͙̯͓̓̿̊͑̇̿̀͊̇̎̈́̕͝ͅͅY̸̛̛͕̘̗̻̺̟̫͎̯̭͐̏̋̅̽̒͝͝Ģ̴̛̳͎̥̘̣̣̘̲̈̾͊͜ͅO̶̡̲̜̜̰͕̣̭̟̬̫͊̿͂͗̔͋͐͊͐͝Ȃ̴̧̱̰͈̈́̽̚Ẁ̶̫͎͉̫̰̼̹̺̞̦̬̞̭̑̾͑͛͝A̶̝͇̺̹͖͠Y̷̧̘͓͇̬͍̘̮̭̿ͅG̸̢̧̛͓̟̰̦̳̤̪̰͖̤̩͎̽̂O̵̢̨͚̽̑͊̓A̵̧̨̻̹͎̭͖͙̮͉͈͆̊̔͗͘W̸͚̗͐̈́̚͝A̶͈͖̘̺̻̝̦̮͙̙̻̓̐̈́́̋̾͗͘͠Y̵̥̗̰̹͇̥̣̣͈̼̦̱͒̓͒̍̈̀̏̄̋̕̕͠Ģ̷̜̳̗̬̫͖̺͉̈́̇̄͋̅̐̈́̀͗͝͝O̷̦̳̓͂̿̍͠Ā̵̢̦̘̹̼͉̣̱̹̮̱̓͒̈́̽̚͘W̶̡̡̟͚̹̥̩͍̞̍̄̈͊́̚͠͝Ḁ̷̢̣̰̪̲͍̉̿̎̚Y̴̢̳̻͚͉͙̦̟͓̦̅̉̈́͌̇̃͗̅́͌͌̚G̴̫̩̼͚͉̭͖͍̠̍O̴̻̝̰͇̍̅̎͌̑͑̍̽̌̈̈́̐̕Ā̴̲̙̩̮͓̜̤̉̏̔̋͑͝W̵̡͓̬̜̩͔̺͉̯̪̞̍̇͐͋̈́ͅÅ̴̪̘͔̲̲̱̼̼͈̜͂̔͗̓ͅȲ̴͔̚Ģ̵͖͈͔̿̉̈̃̈́̽͘͜Ǫ̴̻̺͇͖̲̜̥͓͔͂̈̈́̉A̷̭̲̗̝̤̗͈͈͍̱̭͂̈̃͂͑̑̈͒̑̕͘͘̕͜͜͜͠W̴̢̯̺̩̟̻̪͙͎̞̬̭̖̘̼̓Ä̸̢̛̮͇̪̣́̉̌̈́͒̕͝͠͠ͅY̴̰͚̌̉G̴̡̡̮̝̬̰͎̠͇̫̭̭̥̺̈O̶̡̨̜̻̮̝͇͖̫̺̺̽͐̃̆̎̅̔́͋͌͘A̶͙͛̏̈́̓̑̅̚͘͝W̸̲̯̲͓̥͙̯̮͇̫̞͔̌͗͘͜Å̸͔͒Ÿ̶͇̹̮̟́̒̅̒̌̀͛̾̌̇̋͘ͅĢ̶͓̳̝̥͍͈̭̟̫̺͔̆̃O̴̢̦͙̞͚̦̟̮̼̅̈́̀͊͠͝Ä̶̡̲̰̘͎̬̘͖͚̆̄́̆̔̀̃͊̊̃̋̚͝W̵̢̼̗̘̥̥̯̯̭̜̫̿̕͠Ą̵̡̢̧͕̖̼͈̬̙͚̳͓̖̀̀͌̒̕͜Y̸̧̨̲̘͚̺̮͎̥̝̫̠̹̆̐̃̆̋̽̅̃͒͜͜Ğ̷͉̬̎̂̅̍̈́͊̽͗̍̈́̍̕͝O̴̧̟͓͓̥̘̤͆̃͊͠A̷̛͖͑̑̄̓͋͐̆̈́̓̚Ẅ̸̡̛̳͖͇̹̠͖͎̬͙̜̣͖̍̔̓̓̀͂̋̕͘̕͝A̸̡̛̙͉̼̠͓͙̞͐̏̾͂̑͋͊̉̋̓̕ͅY̷͔̦̾̈̀̋̾̒̈́̇̇̄̉͠Ġ̸͍͙̬͔̪͗͊͗̓̍͝Ô̸̙̱̲̯͍̩͍̙̭̘͎͚͚̊͛̌̅̽͘͝ͅͅA̸̢̩̘̩̖͈̠̿͆͒̀̔̅͋̐́̑̕͝Ẉ̶̡͍͍̩̓̍̂͆ͅA̷̙̳̜͔̤̮̣̪̬̐͊̔͒̔͛͛̄͑̏͗̃̽͑̚͜Y̸̯̮̦͔͉͛̆̑̓̒͑͐̄̕͝͝G̵̛̹̀̽͗͗̃̀̕Ȍ̵͍̭̤͋͛́́͑̓̚͘̚͝͠Ä̸̢̢̤̞̖́̈̃͒͆̈́̐̀͐͊̑͘͘͝ͅW̴̨̡̛̞̜͇̠̫̥̤̠̯̱̐̐͐̑͋͠͝À̷̡̱̞͚̳̬̠̼̟̙̤̑͗͑͗̽̊͗̂̉͘͝͝Y̵̤̣̋̓̆͂̓̏G̸͓͎̹̲̱̮͉͍̦̖̦͓̥̍́̔̑̑̀̎͌͋͝O̷̢̤̝̳̳̲̝͓̭͇̙̓̽̀̕͜ͅÀ̵̧̨̗̦̹̱͎͍͚̩̫̭̜W̵̨͎͇̮͇̜̭̱͓̗͓͔̜̝̾̓̓̒̃̈́̈́́͗̉̒̕͝Ā̵̡͔̻͙͔͓̻̗͔̲̬̠͈̫̎̉Y̶͇̯̯̬̳̹̥͇͉͍̆ͅG̸̢̢̻̰̫͌̌͌̓̋̑͐̎͐͊͊̃͝O̶̻͕͖̝͇̙͑̌̽̈́̒̂̾́̋̚͝Ă̸̦̋͘Ẃ̶̨̡̛̘͇̳̣̺͔̺̻̆̑A̴̤̬̣̭͋̌͌̋͗̊͝Ỷ̸͍̞̥̳̤̖͓͂̂G̶̡̺͖̱͎̩͙̮͖͕̗̘̻͛͊͛͐́̈̉̈́͘ͅͅÖ̸͈̬̻́͐̈̈̏̋A̸̞͚̺̳̝̜̜͙̲͓̣̗̩̬̙͝͠Ẅ̴͙̩̻́́̆̈̄͆͘̚͠͝A̸͔̬̘̘̫̰̱̲͈̙͎̱͕̖̿̇̐̊Ỹ̷͔͙̗̂̒̎̚͘͝G̶̞̀̓̀͌̚Ờ̷͍̜͚̰̂̃̑̿̈͒͒̈͝A̴̧̨̨̙̩̼͔̥̩̝͉͖͙̎̍̿̃̔̀͐͜͝W̴̧̢͚͍͔̝̺̹̝̲̯͔̲̓͗͠A̶̢̢̭̝̦̟̫̮͎̜̯̖̹̾͊̽̔̅̀̈́͜Y̸̱̞͑̆͝͠G̷̨̯͎̰̪͚̼̹̗͕̜̫͋̑́̈́̓̽O̸̧̼͖̔̇̾͒͋̎Ȧ̶̠͉W̴̨͒́A̸̡̳̣̭͎͙͔̲̮̫͑̈́́̌̓̆Y̶̪̪͕̳̜̣̜̅͛͋̒͂̂͊̍̿͆̓̀́̋͂G̴̨̜̫̬̻̞̲̖̫̣͚̺͆̄̏͂̍̈́͠ͅȌ̸̲̥͙̖̆͊̇͊͛̑̏A̵̛̤͉̪̦̰͉͚͓̞̿͋̇̄W̴͉͇̟͚͎̿̉̽̌͋͒̕͜Ą̶̢̻̰̬̣̮͎̝̮̰̅̔̀̈́̈́̐͒̈́Ý̸̡̨̲̳̟̮̳̜̹̤̍͂̈̿̓͜͜͝G̸̙̹̞̯͚̺͈͎͎̮̪̳͒̿̍͑̽͐̔̂͜ͅͅṎ̸̢̘͕͖͎̯̭̣̰̯̥́̄̂̔͐̔̕ͅA̷̤̝̟͚̪̦̥̼̿̚ͅW̷̛̛̘̗͈͈̮͉̑̿͋̈́̏͒́̐́̏̂͝A̸͓̠̭̗͇̫͉̩̭̭̬̹͖͂Y̴̘̋̽͌̇͘G̴̢͎̥͓̦͆̒̆̌̑͛̽̅͂̽O̸͙͈̲̱͐̀́̉̔͆͛͂͗͝Ả̶̛̦͌͂̍Ẉ̴̨̳͗͐̋̃̑ͅA̵͚̓̃̅̽̋͋̅̒̌̚͠Y̴̹͙͔̲͓̑̃͛͐̏̈͝G̷͈͐͐̒͑̀̾͌͑̃͘Ò̶̤̘̞̞̟̤̮͇̼͉̓͑̅̎͗̽͝Ä̷̛͖͔̑̌̂͆̈́̌̌͑͋̏͘͠W̶̟͍̹̪̳̣̽͌̏̆̓̂́̕͠A̴̢̛̻̪̹̪̞̟͓͓̠͊̈́̊͐̓̓̀͑̆͜Y̵̟̊̾̓̃̊͐͝G̴̛̛͔͙̯̮̿̌͆̃͂̉̑̈͂́̀̒Ǫ̸̳̦͇̯̮͊̐À̸̢̠͍̤̻̭̥̊͐͘͘W̴̧͓̃̎͌̕A̷͉̲̞̭̳͖̪̬̙̳̘͂͐̏͊͋͒͂̃̒̀̀Y̵̨̬͇̬͓͓͖̬͙̜͆̇͘͜ͅG̴̻̙͙̖̦̦͙͈̘͍̞̐̓̌̓̏́͂̇̆̂͝Ó̵̧̞̘̓̐͝͠Ȧ̸̩̟W̷̻̻͖̤͇̣̥̩̾͂͑̊̌̕͠A̷̧̪̩̼̭̬̖͚̹̖̰̘̣̔Y̴̳̳̘̙̙̫̬͚̼̾G̵̘̥̣̘̗̤̒̉̚͘Ơ̸̖̖̬͖̅̈́̓̀͑̆͒Å̶̝̤̦̈̈́̓͛̀̋͗̇̌W̷̠̩̹̺̪͎̻̯̥͎͎͙͛͗̄͒ͅA̸̝͕̬͒͒̐͂͆͊̓͒̆̒͘͝Y̸͎͉͊̊̿̿̌̌̅͑̽̾̿͆̿͠G̷͈̱̲̯̝͚͉̐̂̈͋̈́̀͌̔͗́̈̌̕͝Ǫ̵͖̝͙̥̽̒̌͆̇̈́͐̈́͛̅͆̑̊̚͠Ą̴̞͈͓̳͍̙̘̻͔̽̐̅̈̍̽͊̿̑̕͠Ẇ̷̡̢̟̙̬̘̭̗̜̺̯̬̠͑̍̈́͝A̶̡̡͇̺͚̩͉̜̽̄͛̓̅̀͝Ý̷̺G̴̤͛̊͌͋͒͒̿̀̂̐͘̕͠O̸͚̻͚̮̣͑A̴̡̨͇̫̳̠̣͒̇̉̍̾͑̋͒̕W̵͓̮͚̮̞̟̤̩͖̮̼̙͓̎̏̓Á̸̢̧̻̲̗͍͓͉̰͒̐͆Y̵̢̛̟̺͛̎͋͝Ģ̷̡̨͖̼͔̩̹̜̲̪̍̄̃̽͆͝O̷͓̖̻̍ͅǺ̸̛̦̝̐̓̾̀̉͜͝W̸̡͉̗͈̱̥̣͇̹̞̟͕̜͎̏̌͑̕͝͝Ą̶̢̢͇̘͍̠̦̣̼̍̌̋͗̂̑̐̿̽̿̽̃͜ͅY̵̛̼̘̑̽͗̒͂̔̇͑̌̋̑͘͠G̷̱̅͌Ǫ̶̢͓̗̩͓͈̪͚̮̜͛̈́̾̇̿̀̔̏̓̌̍͑̚͘A̷̡̗̺̦͓̼̪̣̣̪̖͉̲̋̿͊̀̊̉Ẃ̵͕̯͙́̈̈́̒͘̚A̸͚͇̞͎̮̩̹̟̓͛̏̉̊Y̷̨͍͖̅̈́̾̓̍̾̏̂̿̑͘̕͝Ģ̵̧͖͉͎̳͔͈͖̤͔̮͈͐̂̀̇̂̈̑̓̈́̚͠͠Ǫ̴̡̗͕̣̞̏̐̋̃͛̿̈́͆̑͗͘͜͠À̵̧̨̟̜̤̗̬͍͈̼̫͕̜̈́̐͑̓͘W̷̛̞͙͑͆̈̈́͗̌̽͒̕A̶̱̮̹̖̻̗͇̜̙̫͙͓͂́͋̃̈̇̌̈́̎͜Y̴̪̓͛̊̿͠͠G̶̟̪͉͇̊̈́̊̔̊̈́͠O̴̥̺̠̬̙̪̤̣͔͔̹̥̘̙̅̿̌̃̅̃̿͝A̵̢̡̘͇̒͋̈̉W̵͕̣̟̥͖̘̰͐͌̏͆̿̽̈̈́́̈́̇̓Ą̴̺̌͌̅Y̵̡̨̟̬̹̳̖͕̼͇͎͉͎͍̅͜G̴̢̢̤͓̬͕̬̮͓̼͇͙͆̋̃͐̋̆̆̈́̓̔̍͠Õ̸̳̫̫͋͆̈́̇̐̐̿́̌̕͜͠͝Å̸͗̿̽̾̓̂̒̓͆͑̏̓̕ͅͅẀ̵͕͖̗̦̲͍͍̯̞̑̽͒̅͑̂̈́̂̚A̴̢͕͔̟͎̘̖̼͉̺̲͕̜͌̆͂̆̐̍̌̊̐͝Y̶͚̝̹̣̬̭̬̞͖̖͛̈́̑̇͗̋̏̏͝G̶̢͈̯̬͔͚̠̮̅̿͛Ȯ̵̡̗͓̲̼̠͔͉͎̫͖͍̌̐̄͒̆̅͋̈́͘ͅA̶̡͐͌͋͐̇͘Ŵ̶̧̡̲̺̯̫͕̳͇̞̯̘̑̋̊͊̐̇͝͠A̵̧̢̛̺̞̫̺̼̖̼̠̜̙̐̇̾̆͛̆̌̋͌̒͛̈́͘͝Y̸̤̠̦̲̞͔̝͉͓̒̿̈͑̅̐̀̓͐̕͘͝G̸̡̛͓̞̖̤̾̑̑̈́͂͋͗Ơ̵͎̖̖̜̠̳̭̬̠̿̑̔̋͌͆̆͗͋A̸̡͙̙̣̰̞̋͂̓̿͝W̸̧̢̗̟̪̦̲͇̗̤͈̬͍̋́̈́̎̒̃̿̾̑́͘͠͠ͅͅẬ̶͓̫̈̊̆͘͜͝͝Ỳ̷̡̰̰̯͚̣̖͆̏̎̕ͅG̵̤͉̪͎̖̲͔̫̹̞͓͆̓̉͐̂͗͐̈̉̏̚͜͜͝Õ̶̙̪̲̺͋͌̿A̷̯͉͙̥͆̉̃̅̏̌̿̒̎͐̄͝͝Ŵ̵̢̡̤̜͎̟͉̟̣̦̩̟̆͜A̴̡̬͛Ÿ̷͍́Ğ̵̨̣̼̗͍͖̝̜̱̰͔̯̖̪͐̌̌̓͛͑̐̐̾̀͛Ǫ̶͚̠̜͓̮̼͙̭̯͎̯̩̳̈̍̑̆͒̔̑̓̈́̇̇͜A̶̧͙͔̠͋̈́͗ͅW̵̛̜̫̰̩̏̄̈́́̾̚͜͝Ȃ̸̺̣͊̀͘Y̷̢͙̟̣̣͈̼͖̦̱̯̅̓͛͜G̸̨̳̻̭͎̼̗͎̬̤̹͔͓͛̋͐́̑̔͋̌̂̓͘̕͝͝O̶̡̝͈̟̭͖͕̱͋͛ͅA̵̬͉͚̙̤̯̗̼͙̫̬̠͗̄W̶̧̰̼͎͇̙̻̲̹̖͚͇͛̄̌͆́A̸͇͈̎̈̄͑̈̂̂͛͝ͅY̶̙̓͛̄̅G̴̢͈͍̻͈̖̩͒̑̂͘̚ͅO̷͕͂A̴̧̨̰̖͉̬̖̪̯͖͙͍͗̃̾͌͛̈́͜W̶̧̛͕̤̝̦̤͎̣̪͎̅͑̎͌̈̂͑̉͐̚͠A̵͔̫̹͛͑̔̅̈̓̊̒̐͜Ȳ̴̧̛̬̺͈̣͔̗̈́̓̎̐͆̃͐͂́̂͋̈̾Ģ̴̡̳̪͍̱̉̊O̷̢̢̩̼̻̯̗͂̆́̾̊͗͝Ǎ̷͚̅͆W̸̡̝͕̭̳͇͙̹͕͓̞͜Ą̴̢͔͉̳̦̰̰̟̱̟̣̋Y̴̥̠͈̪̼͖̺̯͐Ğ̴̝̞̂̈́O̵̡̞̤̟̲̖̖͇̰͎͇̫̦̬͛͛͛̃͋̾̚͝͠Â̸̞̹͎̐̈́̽́̈́̈̕̚W̴͉̏̔́͗͒̑Ą̵̛̣̳̙̲͉͍̮͕̞̎̆͒̒͘͝Y̷̝̞͌̌̏̃͒̍͐͐̔**

  
  
  


Crisp and clear, like frost over grass, cuts straight through the thoughts. 

 

“Good evening, Mr. Gros.” 

 

Her voice is dark and velvet. Soft but with an edge, a promise of destruction, just like everything else here. The floor is cold, but it’s nothing compared to the sharp point that presses against his neck. But she’s still halfway across the room, leaning against that table, a smirk playing on her pale lips.

 

A spike of ice, thin as a water bottle but deadly sharp, presses against his throat. Topher looks up, feeling the temperature drop. The woman watches him calmly, clouds of cold air swirling in front of cruel golden eyes. 

 

_ Count not my transgressions, but, rather, my tears of repentance. _

 

“I would like to ask you some questions.” That again. It’s always the same. The same questions. The same stare. The same cold point against his neck. 

 

Topher summons enough strength to open his sore jaw. “ _ Fuck you _ .” 

 

The woman just smiles, tight-lipped and without any creases. She’s almost too doll-like to be real. Too animated, too expressionless, like every movement, every twitch of her muscles, is forced. Straight brown hair down her back, red sheen, not a strand out of place. Honey-gold eyes. No pupils. 

 

She looks the same. She always looks, says, acts the same. It’s all part of the torture. 

 

“Mr. Gros, I would like to ask you a few questions,” she repeats. 

 

H̵E̷L̶P̴ ̶M̷E̸

 

The woman shifts, crossing her legs. She smiles. “I would like to know if you have seen this man.” 

 

She holds up an image. 

 

It’s of the boy. 

 

White hair, gold eyes.

 

Her eyes glint. “Ah. So you do know Rowan Lefèvre.” 

 

_ Remember not my iniquities, but, more especially, my sorrow for the offenses I have committed against You.  _

 

“The boy is none of your concern,” he spits, chest heaving, agonizing, from the effort of speaking. “He hasn’t been seen in months. Abernathy -” 

 

“Oh, he has,” she says softly. “Several motels have been destroyed. Blue fire, they say. Sound at all familiar?” 

 

The images of Abernathy flash before his mind. The boy, silver-haired and broken, the heat on his back. And that woman’s eyes glowing through the smoke, a ring of ice around her. 

 

She smiles, tilts her head just enough to seem robotic. “What do you know about the boy?” 

 

Different questions. A different look. Not normal, something’s happened - is she scared? 

 

The ice presses harder against his throat. Prompts him. 

 

_  I long to be true to Your Word, and pray that You will love me and come to make Your dwelling place within me. _

 

She leans in, too close yet still so far away, and Topher sees the threat there. 

 

“Tell me, Mr. Gros,” she murmurs, “do you fear God?” 

 

“You will burn in hell,” he snarls. “And I will celebrate the day I rip your life from your body.” 

 

She smiles again, and there is no warmth there. “You cannot kill me in a way that matters.” 

 

Topher sucks in a breath. 

 

_ I promise to give You praise and glory in love and in service all the days of my life. _

 

“Kill me, you coward,” he spits. “I will find nothing but the warmth of God’s arms.” 

 

A chilling laugh. It breaks off the walls of the room, fills Topher with a dread that fills his mind with the echoes of her. 

 

“Your god has no power here.” 

 

She raises her arms, and the ice rotates, scraping the bottom of his chin. “There is no point in killing you, Mr. Gros. The Family will undoubtedly look for you, and they will find you.” Once again, she smiles, as if watching him writhe in his own fluids on the ground truly brings her joy. “There’s nothing much I’m willing to do about that. So if you’re alive by then . . .” She stands to her full height, raised several inches from the thick boots she wears. 

 

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Gros,” she says calmly. “If you sit here and keep quiet, I might feel generous enough to bring you a few tissues.”

 

He scowls. “The Family will find you.” 

 

“The Family already knows who I am, Mr. Gros,” she replies politely, heading towards the door to leave the white room. 

 

“And who are you?” 

 

That was another part of her sick plan. Keep him in the dark. But he recognizes the way she walks, her straight, waist-length hair, her silken voice. The ever-present coldness she carries with her. She’s the same as she was on the day her father took her to the Family, forced her on her knees, forced her to repent for her sins. She exploded the day she lost the necklace. Topher Gros remembers the ice storm. The snow. The spikes, the wall that cut a man straight in half. The crunching of crushed bone. 

 

She smiles, voice dripping with malice like poisonous honey. 

 

“Peggy Steinberg, sir."


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the author places their own experience with 24/7 gas stations at ~ 3 am into their work. you find the most beautiful people in those places.

Tristan doesn’t respond to any of our messages, so after a few hours of worrying and trying to reconnect, we give up and decide to ride around Vegas. 

 

I stare at myself in the mirror for a few seconds when Jeff rinses my hair out with cold water. My hair dries within a few minutes, and as he said, the color ends up being a light pastel blue, but still closer to cyan than Jeff had originally intended. It looks odd with my pupil-less gold eyes. 

 

“Might have to do something about your eyes if we’re in public,” Jeff says as we leave the apartment in a fresh change of clothes. “Wear sunglasses or something. They’re pretty noticeable.” 

 

“I know,” I say sourly. When I first got to the mansion, it was difficult for people to even look me in the eye. Something about getting chills whenever they looked where my pupil should be. “I’ll just look down when I walk. I used to do that at the mansion.” 

 

“Yeah, and we all thought you were either scared shitless or some smartass rich kid too good for us wonderful psychopaths,” Jeff says dryly. We take the stairs instead of the elevator, to avoid people. We’re not too far up. “But I guess in public . . .” 

 

I look down and step behind Jeff when a few workers pass us on the stairs. I hear Jeff giving them a friendly ‘hello,’ and then we’re back on our way down. I don’t know when I ended up grabbing his hand, but he doesn’t move to let go, so I don’t either. “I really do like the hair.” 

 

“You do?” I ask dubiously. 

 

“Yeah, it’s a bit more stand-outy than the white hair, in my opinion, but you look . . . kind of different.” 

 

“Kind of?” 

 

“Kind of,” he reaffirms.

 

We make it to the lobby-dining-too-many-people area and Jeff pulls me along the most empty side towards the exit. It’s one in the morning, but there are still at least a few dozen people scattered about, making their ways to the casino and hanging around talking. Everyone’s loud and the lights are dim enough so that no one really notices me and Jeff slipping out the front. 

 

The truck is where we left it. Jeff left his window rolled slightly down as if he wasn’t worried at all about it being stolen. Anaïs had always triple-checked to make sure her doors were always locked, even in our driveway. It could have been her obsessive personality. But Jeff’s a very paranoid person. 

 

“You left it unlocked,” I say idly, slamming the door shut so hard the whole truck rattles. 

 

“I did? Guess I wasn’t really paying attention.” 

 

I’m unconvinced. But I leave him alone about it. 

 

“Do you think Tristan will see our message?” Jeff asks once we pull out of the parking lot and head down the busy street. I keep pressed against the window, watching the streetlights and flashing signs. For someone who grew up in the middle of shit fuck nowhere, Jeff doesn’t seem to have a problem driving in a crowded city. 

 

“She should. Unless she’s busy.” Busy finding Peggy. I would never tell Tristan this, or even Jeff, but finding Peggy? I don’t think she will. Knowing what Jeff told me now, I don’t think Peggy would have made it out of that place. 

 

Jeff glances over at me. “You know . . .” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Ah . . . nevermind. I just . . .” He stops and frowns. “Park?” 

 

“Not really feeling the park.” 

 

Jeff drives around aimlessly for a while before turning onto a smaller street, right in front of an aquarium. He avoids the main parking lot and goes straight to an alleyway. Jeff looks over at me and shrugs, cutting the truck off. “Have you ever broken in somewhere?” 

 

I sit up. “We are not breaking into the aquarium.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because I don’t want to get tazed by a security guard!” 

 

“Then don’t get tazed!” He grins and hops out of the truck. “They’ll still have the lights on. We can go look at the fish. That’s something you’ve always wanted to do, right? Be in an aquarium at night?” 

 

I feel myself blushing down my neck. How did he know that? 

 

Despite my heart pounding in my throat, I follow Jeff around to the back of the aquarium. “It’s a local thing,” he’s telling me. I don’t think he knows what the fuck he’s talking about. This is Las Vegas. “And I know how not to trip off alarms.” 

 

“Of course you do.” 

  
“Well, I did work for a crime organization for a few years.” We stop at a door around the back, probably for employees. Jeff picks it open in a few seconds and shoves it open.

 

We find ourselves in a small storage room. It’s so dark that I can’t see anything, but Jeff pulls something out of his pocket and a few cracks later we have glowsticks. 

 

“You bought glowsticks?” I say dryly, taking a neon green one from him. Jeff shrugs. 

 

“Never know when they’ll come in handy,” he says. 

 

“You just keep them in your pockets?” 

 

“I have lots of secret pockets. For knives and such.” Jeff and I start looking for a door into the main building. The aquarium isn’t too big, but it’s definitely not a _local_ thing without security cameras and guards on duty 24/7. I don’t know how the fuck Jeff and I are going to get through this thing without getting shot or something. “I used to have a pocket on my thigh for like, condoms and spare change, but -” 

 

“But you haven’t been laid in several years?” 

 

“Yeah,” he says dejectedly. 

 

We finally make it into a large area with some smaller fish tanks and a huge desk up front. It must be where people . . . buy tickets? 

 

Jeff looks back when he realizes I’m not following him and grabs my hand. “Come on,” he says, “this isn’t the first time I’ve snuck into a place like this. Compared to the others, this one’s _really_ low-security. I did some research. The place is about to close down ‘cause of animal abuse.” 

 

“And you took me to the one that abuses their fish?” 

 

“Would you rather pay a hundred bucks for two tickets?” 

 

“Alright. Fair point.” 

 

He leads me through some hallways until we’re at a door surrounded by hideous brick walls. And like he said, the dull neon blue lights are on, illuminating the tanks in the room. It’s a hallway with displays on either side as well as the ceiling. 

 

A few fish swim up to the glass. Different types of angelfish, tangs, and clownfish. Jeff puts his hand on my back and gently pushes me closer to the glass, away from the center of the floor. 

 

“It’s where the sensors in this place are,” he says quietly. I nod and turn back to look at the fish. He doesn’t move his hand.

 

On the other side is freshwater fish. I recognize some of them; discus, schools of multicolored tetras all gleaming individually under the light. A few massive oscars swim up to the glass and stare at us. 

 

Trying to ignore how close Jeff is, I say, “Do you know what the names of any of these are?” 

 

“Uhh . . . Think that’s called a sailfin molly,” he says, pointing towards a group of bright orange fish darting in between the corals. “And those big ones over there are plecos. They’re nocturnal.” 

 

A massive goldfish swims past, eyes bulging in our direction. I press against Jeff and pray he doesn’t say anything. “I didn’t know they get that big.” 

 

“Yeah, if you keep them in a big space and feed them enough,” he replies. “I got one from a fair when I was like seven and it was alive for . . . six years, maybe? Got pretty big. Kept him in a koi pond at my uncle’s house.” 

 

“What was his name?” 

 

“Sherman.”

 

I try not to laugh. “Are you serious?”

 

“I also kept a betta that I named Captain Jack Sparrow. Violent motherfucker.” 

 

We go into a reptile room after staring at sharks for a while (they wouldn’t come up to the glass). There are logs going around the room so that kids can step up and look into the tanks. I notice immediately that the tanks for the snakes, even the bigger ones, are small and don’t have much substrate in them. The first one I wander up to doesn’t have a water bowl. No wonder this place is shutting down. 

 

“I feel bad for them,” I say. Jeff steps up on the log beside me. 

 

“It’s a hognose,” he says, peering into the dirty glass. “I had a cousin who was into reptiles. He bred them. Said something about not naming them so you didn’t get too attached.” 

 

“Well, I’m naming this one Henry.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

“Don’t judge me. You named a goldfish Sherman.” 

 

“Fair enough.” He squeezes past me and looks into another tank. He winces. “I think this one has a stuck shed. The sign says it’s a ball python but it’s definitely a boa constrictor. Bob?” 

 

“I like Bob.” 

 

“Plain Bob,” he says before hopping off the log and wandering across the room. “There are spiders over here. And frogs. And . . . A dead chipmunk? Man, I feel sorry for these things.” 

 

“Name the spiders. Go.” 

 

“Alright.” He reads the labels. “Greenbottle blue. Webs. Rosehair. Noodle. Avic pinktoe. Shakira, obviously. Arizona blonde. Princess Starbucks.” Jeff grins back at me. “Your turn.” 

 

I start pointing to the snakes. “Uhh . . . Mary? And that one . . . is . . . Scales. And . . .” I turn towards a filthy tank with a white snake inside. “Marrow.”

 

“Wow. You’re shit at naming things.” 

 

I stare at Marrow. The sign says she’s a leucistic ball python, and the cage is hardly big enough for her. “I feel so bad for all of these animals. Where do you think they’re gonna go when the aquarium shuts down?” 

 

“Probably send them to a rescue group or a . . . a rehab, or something.” Jeff joins me beside of Marrow’s small, grimy tank. He taps once on the glass, and I feel a wave of relief when she lifts her head. “I don’t know . . . I’ve never really been a fan of keeping animals in environments like this so that people can stare at them all day.” 

 

“Yeah, I’m not a fan of that either. Never really liked zoos.” 

 

Jeff stares through the glass for a while, and I start contemplating the odds of him actually breaking the glass and taking Marrow out, but then he shakes his head and steps off the log. “Well, I think I ruined the mood.” 

 

I raise a brow. “There was a mood?” 

 

He flashes a grin over his shoulder as he makes his way towards the exit. “This is a date, isn’t it?” 

 

_Oh. Shit._ I rub my face and follow him through the doors. It leads us to a wide, open area with several large exhibits, both on the walls and in the center in small pond-like structures. I imagine they were originally for stingrays, but now they’re empty, and mold is growing on the insides. 

 

“This is _sad_ ,” I chide. “Are there any killer whales? I fucking love those things.” 

 

“Probably not. I think they had to get rid of all of them.”

 

I try to smother my disappointment. “Aw. I hate this place.” 

 

“Yeah, not feeling this room. Wanna break into the gift shop?” 

 

“Yeah, why not. We’re committing a crime anyways.” 

 

Jeff and I carefully make our way through the room, trying not to set off any alarms. He leads me into a larger room with a small restaurant and a few gift shops. Only one of them doesn’t have bars protecting the front doors. Jeff picks them open in a few minutes while I nervously look around for any guards. Strangely, I don’t see any. They may have laid off some employees when the company started going under. 

 

“Alright,” he whispers. “Stay quiet and don’t break anything.” 

 

“You’re clumsier than I am.” 

 

“Yeah, well I don’t have a tendency to set shit on fire when I get spooked,” he hisses back. “And this room definitely has cameras. So we can’t stay long.”

 

“Sounds good.” I walk over to a wall of shark teeth and fossils that all look fake. There are t-shirts. It doesn’t look like one’s been bought in years. There are also chunks of coral labeled at $10-$50. Small jars with wet samples of baby sharks. Dried-out starfish. 

 

I make my way around some more ornaments and statues. Some small plushies that are $10 each and no bigger than the palm of my hand. If there weren’t animals in this place, I’d be tempted to set it on fire. 

 

“Hey, Rowan, come here,” I hear Jeff whisper-yelling from across the shop. 

 

I immediately get lost within the dark aisles of clothing and cheap toys. There are towels and stuffed animals and some . . . books? Lots of books on sea life, as if any of the employees here actually know jack shit about sea life. 

 

Jeff grabs my shoulder and I spin around, sparks flying between my fingers. 

 

“Don’t set me on fire, buddy,” he says with a grin. “Look what I found.” He holds up a large stuffed killer whale. I glance at the price tag. It’s $69.99. 

 

I realize what he’s doing. I’m suddenly very thankful for the darkness of the room so he can’t see how red my face gets. “Oh. Okay.” 

 

“You gonna take him or not?” 

 

Jeff’s smile doesn’t falter. There’s not much light from the exhibits outside or the strips on the ceiling, but I can still see how genuinely happy he is, and my chest burns. His eyes lighten when I take the whale from him. 

 

I hug the whale close to my chest. It reminds me of the giraffe Anaïs bought me on my 12th birthday. That was the last one I celebrated. She always forgot the ones after that. 

 

“What’re you gonna name him?” Jeff asks. 

 

“Uh . . . Leo.” 

 

Jeff pats Leo. “Wanna go now?” 

 

“Yeah,” I say, hugging Leo tighter. “I’m tired.” 

 

Jeff smiles, a bit crooked and earnest. “I really do like the hair.” 

 

I try (and fail) to ignore how his compliment turns me into a mess and follow him out of the gift shop. We weave our way through stands and empty exhibits until we’re in the lobby, and that’s when I blankly reach forwards and grab Jeff’s hand. His hand is cold and feels rough where the scars are, like sandpaper or leather. 

 

He doesn’t look back, but he does curl his fingers around mine, and the corners of his lips twitch, as if he’s holding back a smile. 

 

“Thank you for stealing for me,” I say, trying to swallow the thick feeling in my throat. My magic thrums in my veins and I feel like I’m going to set myself on fire. 

 

“Well, you ran away for me,” he replies. “It’s the least I could do.” 

 

I stop walking and tug at his hand until he turns around. The light from the glowstick he put around his neck makes his eyes seem like they’re glowing. 

 

I swallow a few times so my voice doesn’t crack. “When we find your mother . . . What are you going to say?” 

 

Jeff shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll apologize. Don’t laugh at me if I cry.” 

 

“I’m not that mean.” 

 

“I know.” 

 

I run my thumb over the jagged scar on his wrist. Jeff turns his arms over so I can see all the scars. Some are from burns, others from a razor. I slide my hand down his arm and squeeze his hand again. 

 

“They’re not that bad,” I say quietly. 

 

When Jeff doesn’t answer, I look up, ready to defend my statement. I shut my mouth when I realize he’s staring at me, smiling.

 

“What?” I demand. 

 

“Oh. Nothing. You’re just really -” 

 

A sharp ringing interrupts him. I immediately let go of his hand and look around. A camera is flashing a red light. 

 

“Alarm,” he says, grabbing my arm and jerking me towards the door. “Gotta go now.” 

 

I tuck Leo under my arm and start running behind Jeff, failing to contain my laughter. “We’re gonna get fucking tazed!” 

 

Jeff grips my arm tighter and bursts through the door into the empty parking lot. I almost get hit in the face with it as the door swings back shut. I can hear distant shouting, probably one of the guards coming from the surveillance room. Jeff is laughing too.

 

Both of us are still laughing when we make it to the truck. Jeff slams his door shut, turns the roof light on, and darts out of the parking lot. I hug Leo close to my chest and try to stop laughing. 

 

We pull out onto the main street and I roll my window down, enjoying the wind rushing against my face. I notice that Jeff starts heading towards the hotel and then turns around and heads in another direction, towards a small chain of restaurants and shops. 

 

“Where are we going?” I ask him, staring out at the lights through the open window. 

 

“Gas station. I’m gonna get something.” 

 

“Oh, okay. I’ll go in with you.” I lean against the seat and let the wind whip my hair ungraciously around my face. “That was . . . fun. Thank you.” 

 

Jeff glances over at me and smiles. “I’m glad you had fun. And didn’t get tazed by a security guard.” 

 

“Or throw up from the amount of water I was surrounded by!” I say cheerfully. “I kept imagining what would happen if the glass from the ceiling tanks would break and how _painful_ it would be to have thousands of gallons of water poured directly on you, all at once -” 

 

“I love you with all my heart, Rowan, but please shut up.” 

 

“Truly agonizing!” 

 

* * *

 

The gas station isn’t as extravagant as the rest of the shops and sights around Las Vegas, but I have a feeling Jeff chose this one specifically because of the lack of decadence. What it lacks in visual aesthetics it certainly makes up for in grime and crackheads. 

 

Jeff, despite being one of the most socially awkward individuals I know, talks to the cashier like they’ve been friends for years. It’s a younger woman with faded pink hair but an overall friendly aura, who points him in the direction of energy drinks. I follow him, not knowing what else to do. There’s a man in the corner of the store at a booth who looks like he’s going through a withdrawal. 

 

“You certainly fit in,” I say dryly. 

 

“Dusty crack-smelling places are my favorite,” Jeff tells me, propping the glass door to the fridge open with his hips. “They’re the best places to find the most interesting people.” 

 

I leave him to agonize over what Monster he considers is healthier (and won’t make him feel like shit after his crash at 3 pm tomorrow) and wander around. There’s a woman with animal hair all over her black jacket in an aisle flipping through a small box of condom packets. They’re $1.00 each. 

 

She glances at me, looks over at Jeff (who is still agonizing over his liver failure choice), and tosses me a few condoms. And then she grabs the entire box plus a bottle of lube and struts her way over to the counter. 

 

I hear Jeff walking up behind me and quickly shove the condoms into my pocket. 

 

“Dude, that woman had a whole thing of condoms,” he says in awe. “Kudos.” 

 

The condoms in my pocket suddenly feel heavy. 

 

Jeff and I walk aimlessly around, looking at whatever’s there (I end up buying some pumpkin spice iced coffee) before we decide to go ahead and leave as more people start coming in. There’s a man up front who is currently paying for a ludicrous amount of lottery tickets. 

 

I remember the woman with the entire box of Trojan condoms and the water-bottle-sized tub of lube. And then I remember back at the museum how Jeff’s eyes glowed and I kind of wanted to -

 

I turn to Jeff, say, “I’ll be right back,” and then hurriedly walk over to where I remember her being. I shove a small bottle of lube up my sleeve, grab a bag of gummy worms, and join Jeff back at the counter. I shove the gummy worms next to our things and pray my heart doesn’t up and explode from anxiety. 

 

The man in front of us ends up spending $50 in lottery tickets, shoves half of them into the front of his jeans, and waltzes out of the store. The woman at the counter brightens when she sees Jeff and I. Or, more specifically, just Jeff. 

 

“How’re you doing this evening?” she says cheerfully. I hide awkwardly behind him, but neither of them seem to mind. Jeff immediately strikes up a conversation - or, more specifically, an admittedly extravagant lie - about how he’s visiting his family in Arizona and we’re stopping by Las Vegas to have fun before the undoubtedly awkward family dinner that’s going to end up happening because it’s his abuelita’s birthday, and his abuelita is a terrifying woman. 

 

I feel something cold and sharp in the center of my chest when the cashier bats her eyelashes and compliments the scar on his face. Says something about a bad-boy vibe. 

 

A sharp, white-hot rush of pain shoots up my arm and I accidentally jerk a bit, grabbing my sleeve so fast that I almost elbow Jeff. While he’s still chatting up the cashier, I roll my sleeve up some and see a white vein crawling up my wrist. I quickly jerk my sleeve back down and tug on Jeff’s arm.

 

“Ah, right, we’ve gotta head out,” Jeff says immediately. I see the girl slipping a piece of paper into our bag before handing it to us, giving Jeff a bright smile. “Have a good night!” 

 

“You too!” she calls after us. 

 

The moment we step outside, my heart sinks and I feel sick with guilt. Jeff either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Once I’m back in the truck, I curl up with Leo and stare out the window. 

 

“Are you tired?” Jeff asks.

 

“Yeah . . . can we go back? And see if Tristan responded?” 

 

“Sure.” 

 

I roll up my sleeve where he can’t see and tentatively press on the marking. It burns. I must have burned myself on the inside by accident. By just being jealous that some cashier is flirting with Jeff? Come the fuck on, Aeron.

 

I try to work up the courage to at least start talking, or apologize, or ask something along the lines of ‘so what was that about?’ But I can’t bring myself to open my mouth. I don’t until we pull into the hotel’s parking lot and I follow him up to our room.

 

“You okay?” he asks me, shutting the door behind him once we get into the room. I immediately place Leo on my side of the bed and tug my shoes off. 

 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. My voice gives away the lie. 

 

Jeff frowns. “Are you sick again?” 

 

“No, I’m just . . .” I watch as he sits the bag down and tosses me my packet of gummy worms. “Tired. I’m just tired.” 

 

“Mm. Okay. If you don’t want to stay up waiting for Tristan to resp - oh, hey, she gave me her number.” Jeff holds up the paper. And then he frowns. “She was flirting with me?” 

 

Every single jealous thought I had leaves me along with a groan. 

 

“You fucking _idiot_ ,” I breathe, falling back onto the bed. “She was flirting with you the entire time. You didn’t notice at all?” 

 

“Oh. I just assumed she was high off her shit. Did you see her pupils?” 

 

“Yeah, pupils tend to dilate when you’re around someone you fucking like.” 

 

“ _Ohhh_.” 

 

Jeff crumples up the paper and tosses it into the trash can beside the dresser. 

 

I sit up. “Why’d you throw it away?” 

 

“Why wouldn’t I?” 

 

“Because . . .” I try to think of some dumb shit to say, “Uh, she was pretty?” 

 

“And?” 

 

“She looks . . . Like she’d be . . . fun.” 

 

“ _Fun_ ?” Jeff shrugs off his jacket and puts the bag on the dresser. “She smelled like cigarettes and probably hasn’t had a clean week in seven years. We’re also very incompatible. _You’re_ fun. _She’s_ the type of kid who bragged about losing her virginity at twelve on the bus.” 

 

“That’s . . . oddly specific.” 

 

“I know from experience.” 

 

“Obviously not. She was so obvious that it was painful to watch, and you just kept fucking talking.” 

 

Jeff sits on the bed next to me with an eat-shit grin on his face. “Aw, did that make you jealous?” 

 

“You have absolutely _no_ right to say that when I had to tell you that a gas station cashier was flirting with you.”

 

Jeff leans over the bed and pulls the laptop out. “Aw, that’s cute. Your face is red.” 

 

“You shut your mouth. I’m not jealous.” 

 

“Is that why you didn’t talk the whole way here?” 

 

I scowl at him. “No. I told you, I’m tired.” 

 

Jeff just grins and starts messing around on the laptop trying to get Tristan to respond. I change into a pair of just-slightly-too-short-shorts and mess around with my hair to see if Jeff missed any spots. It seems fine.

 

“She answered!” he calls from the bedroom. 

 

I jump on the bed beside of him and rest my chin on his shoulder to read Tristan’s message. 

 

_And you’re just now telling me all this shit? Fuck you too, then. But I found something interesting you might want to take a look at. 14:56. Sorry for not responding. Had to deal with Brian. :)_

 

“That’s an awfully short message,” I say. 

 

“She sent us a link to this,” he says, and opens up another tab with four squares. Each one displays the view from a security camera, each at different points in the hotel. I have no idea where Tristan found this. 

 

“I skipped through to the time she gave, and look.” He points to the top right one, which is situated right at the alleyway, giving us a slight view of the van. I watch a man slip out from underneath the tarp and walk into the building. Jeff goes to the bottom left camera then, where I see the man walking through the dining hall and going into the doors that lead to the casino. And then the bottom right, where he walks down a long white hallway and disappears around a corner. 

 

“She also gave us the blueprints to the casino,” he says, pulling up a complex map of lowest floors of the hotel. “And there’s no hallway like that.” 

 

“Okay, so a secret hallway. But what about the whole thing about dealing with Brian?” I ask. That normally wouldn’t bother me, but Tristan once told me that nothing’s ever wrong unless she sends a smiley face. She wouldn’t kill Hoodie, would she? 

 

Jeff shrugs. “I don’t know. I doubt that with the surveillance in the manor she’d be willing to tell us exactly what happened. But she’s alive, at least, and has enough spare time to find the fucking security footage for us. This was all two days ago. And then the hallway . . .”

 

“This is too much for my brain to handle at once, Jeff.” I’m starting to wonder if we’re ever going to stop being bombarded with new information - first it was just the library and the sword, and that I could handle, but now we’re going to find Jeff’s supposed-to-be-dead mother but we’ve been stopped by whatever the fuck might be going on underneath the casino that involves the group that wants to kill us who is also affiliated with the group who may be creating monsters, one of which tried to kill us and could possibly be our friend’s ex-girlfriend. There’s also the scary lady who might have powers similar to mine. Oh, and I also might be an abomination and/or the son of a monster fucker. Fucking wild.

 

Jeff quickly types a response and then shuts the laptop. “We’ll go through what we know tomorrow. See if we can link anything together.” 

 

“That would be wonderful. Can I sleep now?” 

 

“If you tell me what was bothering you at the gas station,” he replies. 

 

I glare at him. “Will you let me fucking sleep if I tell you?” 

 

“Mhm.” 

 

“ _Yes_ , I was jealous. Goodnight.” I turn away from him and throw the blanket up over my head, and that’s the end of the conversation. Eventually I hear the click of the lamp being turned off, and Jeff settling next to me. Bastard didn’t even take his jeans off. 

 

“Next time just tell me,” he says. I don’t say anything back. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aeron, putting two (2) flavored condoms and a bottle of lube into his pocket: it's a surprise tool that will help us later


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we are introduced to children with deadly weapons (i.e. nerf guns) in an enclosed space that may or may not be properly ventilated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get ready for the cringe fest

The pain in my arm returns the next morning and jerks me from a dream about high school. 

 

Jeff’s sitting up in the bed sipping his Monster from a straw, playing with the laptop. He looks over when I wake up with a jerk. I sit up and quickly tug my sleeve back. The vein has gotten worse, and it’s starting to turn black. 

 

“What the hell is that?” he asks.

 

“Uh, it’s nothing. What time is it?” I untangle myself from the blankets and look over at the laptop. He’s playing Minecraft and it’s 7 a.m. “Fuck. It’s early. Also your Minecraft house sucks.”  

 

“Mhm. Thank you. I put your coffee thing in the fridge.” 

 

I thank him and manage to stumble my way over to the small fridge in the kitchen. Jeff’s still on the laptop when I come back. I fall onto the bed and bite the plastic off of the bottle. When he doesn’t look away from the screen, I spit it out at him. 

 

“Well, that’s rude,” he grumbles, adjusting his glasses. “Go back to sleep. You’re gonna feel like shit in the morning.” 

 

“I’ll be fine. Have you found anything interesting?” 

 

“Not really. I’ve been checking back and forth between the monitors on the security footage, but nothing’s happening.” Jeff closes Minecraft and pulls up the cameras. He sits the laptop on the bed, shuffles through his bag on the floor, and brings out a notebook and a fine-point Sharpie. “So. Now that you’re awake, do you wanna try and link some shit together?” 

 

“Sure.” 

 

Jeff flips to an empty page and looks at me. “So it started with - the library?” He writes that down and draws a line underneath it. “Alright, so the library. What about it?” 

 

“There are a few things,” I list out. “First is the sword. It wasn’t _found_ in the library, obviously, but it’s still interesting - it’s in my gym bag. We think the library may be a ward against Slenderman’s omniscience - so perhaps it was built by someone who hated him. And then there’s the blocked off portal to my hometown.” 

 

I wait for him to finish writing everything. He draws a line out from Riquewihr. He struggles with the spelling. “So this leads to our second point - that we think Slenderman knew about your mother. And that the two of them may have had some sort of a relationship.” 

 

“Hopefully not a romantic one. But it’s a possibility.” 

 

“Okay.” He writes beneath that; _Rowan a Behemoth???_ I decide not to comment. “And then, totally unrelated - as of right now, I mean - is the SDSC.” _Study and Detainment of Supernatural Creatures._ He writes that beneath a line separating the two subjects. “We think _they_ have some affiliation with the Family, which is a religious cult we think Peggy might be a part of.” 

 

“And then there’s everything with Peggy and the skinwalkers,” I add. “We think Peggy might actually _be_ a skinwalker. In which case she’s pretty much dead. But which organization is creating them? ‘Cause like, the SDSC has been known for creating abominations. But the Family, like you said . . .”

 

“Upsilon was led by the SDSC,” Jeff says. “Cedar and I shut it down. So they shouldn’t still be active. And they never successfully made anything. It was the Family that I heard was actually managing to create monsters that they claimed were like . . . God’s warriors, or something.” 

 

“From existing people?” 

 

“Correct. It was like some odd virus that attacks the brain. They found it in some ice and brought it back. Mutated it and shit.” Jeff shivers. “I can’t remember what they called it. Don’t really care. But the leader thought that the warriors or whatever would defeat the Antichrist when he awoke.” 

 

“Okay. Can this ‘Antichrist’ actually be a thing?” 

 

“They said something about pieces of him coming back together,” he says. “And they were pretty fucking convinced about his existence.” 

 

“Okay, so - the Family funded the SDSC’s Upsilon project, which was a breeding thing. But it failed. So do you think the Family was using the SDSC to create more things for their weird ‘end of the Earth’ war?” That would make sense. I think. “And you said you knew shit about the Family, which is why the SDSC went after you. Why wouldn’t the Family go after you directly?” 

 

Jeff grips his pencil tighter. “The Family went after Cedar. The SDSC went after me. I knew who ran the Family. The Maynard family, they were originally based in Alabama. Eventually, it was just them, going around and trying to convert people, and then religious nuts actually started joining their little cult. And they got fucking _huge_.” 

 

“And we think Peggy’s family joined them.” 

 

“Without a doubt. She went missing the same time they moved into Barmwich. And Tristan told me that Peggy began rebelling against her parents. And then she went missing, and whoever forced her to leave with them were _good_ , because absolutely no traces of her or her family were ever found.” He pulls a thick stack of papers from a folder and tosses them down. “Here are the official police records. Everything about the investigation. It lasted seven months before they dropped it. Couldn’t find any evidence, and they still haven’t to this day.” 

 

“How did you get this?” 

 

“Tristan got it and printed off some copies for us.” 

 

I flip through the papers and stop on the official ‘missing persons’ poster. It was released a few months after Tristan said Peggy moved. Peggy looks no older than 16 in the photo. She has straight brown hair and isn’t smiling. She’s thin. 

 

“And here are some photos Tristan dug out. She made copies.” He hands me some more papers, each one with about six small squares that looked like they were originally Polaroids or from a film camera. One is of Peggy in a striped shirt tucked into a pair of shorts. She’s surrounded in smoke. Her hair is shorter, up to her shoulders now, and she looked more filled out and happy. She’s laughing. I realize I’ve never seen a photo of her. It’s hard to take my eyes off of her - something about Peggy Steinberg is mesmerizing.

 

“God,” I breathe. “She’s beautiful.” 

 

Jeff puts some papers down. “Here are the statements from the man who escaped the Family. The one that was locked up and died.” 

 

I find another picture of Peggy. She’s wearing an orange turtleneck and some black pants. It looks like she’s drawn a heart on her nose and whiskers. It must be a photo from Halloween. “This is . . . depressing. Peggy deserved better.” 

 

“Well. I guess all we can do is hope she’s alive and okay.” Jeff doesn’t sound convinced. I’m not either. But hopefully - hopefully she’s at least _alive_. Tristan said Peggy was a fighter. Maybe she managed to escape. Maybe she’s just in hiding. “So the next thing . . . Would be the tunnel underneath this building.”

 

“Mm. I feel like that is side quest material.”

 

“Well, except for going to Margaret’s house - which is another matter, Slenderman lying to me about my parents - we don’t really have much that we can do. And if the man going underneath the building has affiliations with the SDSC, then we can probably get some answers out of him,” he says. “If we can find out how the SDSC is managing to track us from him, then that’ll help us get to Arizona.” 

 

“So . . . How do you think he’s getting into that hallway?” 

 

Jeff looks over the security cameras and then the blueprint. “Well, it looks like it’s probably accessed from the casino. Last week he went down there pretty regularly - every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday - at 7 in the afternoon. Today’s Friday, so we should probably head down there and watch for him in the casino.” 

 

Then he stops talking and looks closer to the cameras. “Wait. The location on the hallway is different.” 

 

“What do you mean? I don’t see a location.” 

 

“See that number? It’s where it’s located on the street.” Jeff pulls up Google Maps and starts looking around. “So if these cameras - which I’m guessing aren’t CCTV - are put up like this . . .” He starts writing in the notebook. I notice that his handwriting is absolutely terrible. Decipherable, but awful. 

 

“It would be across the street. At the arcade. This camera isn’t even underneath us.” Jeff drops his Sharpie and sits back in shock. “So . . . Wait, no. It has to be. He went straight from . . .” And then he goes back to the cameras and starts jotting down timestamps. “The tunnel must connect this place and the arcade.” 

 

I stare at him for a moment, and then grab his notebook and go over everything he wrote down. A _very_ rough sketch of the hotel, what I think is the road, and then a square. He’s written _ARCADE_ above it, with an arrow pointing to it. He also mapped out all of the security cameras and wrote _5 min walk_ from the arcade to the hotel. And then he circled 15:53. I don’t understand what was going through his head. 

 

“This looks like a madman’s writing,” I tell him. 

 

“Yes, but it makes sense to _me_.” 

 

“That’s literally the definition of insanity.” 

 

“ _Look_. We can wait around all day and try to string some of this together, right? Maybe talk to Tristan. And then at seven we’ll go to the arcade and try to find where he’s coming up from the tunnel.” I can already see a plan forming in his head. It’s probably going to get one of us severely injured. I nod anyways. “And then we can follow him. He usually comes back.” 

 

Jeff draws a sloppy sketch of the man. “He wears this red hat backward in every video. It’s probably a way for a go-between to identify him.” 

 

“Your art terrifies me.” 

 

“Thank you. I aim to please.” He sticks the Sharpie in his bun and turns the notebook around. I wince at the sketch. “Memorize it.” 

 

“Why does his eye look like that?” 

 

“Because I’m doing a rough sketch of a guy we know little detail about with a fucking Sharpie, Rowan.” 

 

“Fair.” 

 

Jeff tosses the notebook down and flips back to the first page. “We need to prioritize. Are we forgetting anything?” 

 

Well. We got the library, the two organizations, Peggy’s disappearance, my mother and the portal, Slenderman lying about Jeff’s mother, the tunnel . . . The only thing I can think of that we didn’t talk about is Jeff’s involvement with the Flatwoods. And whoever Cedar is. But I don’t think Jeff’s ready to talk about that. He went through hell at the syndicate housing. And he doesn’t mention Cedar very fondly. 

 

“I think we’ve got it all,” I say after a moment of thought. “The only thing I’m worried about is whatever the fuck Tristan did to Brian.” Brian isn’t liked very much, sure. He gets mad if you call him anything but Hoodie, has a history of faking his death in extravagant ways, isn’t friendly, drugs up Tim, and kisses Slenderman’s ass. But Tristan wouldn’t . . . _kill_ him, would she? 

 

As if reading my thoughts, Jeff says, “If Brian knew something about us or Peggy - especially Peggy - then Tristan wouldn’t have stopped until she got all the information from him. And LJ knows when someone is lying. He can get inside their heads. So he probably . . . hurt Brian psychologically, made him give everything up, and Tristan . . . probably got rid of him. So that he wouldn’t tell Slenderman.” 

 

“Shit,” I mutter. I knew Tristan was violent, but . . .

 

Jeff shrugs and goes back to Minecraft. He keeps the cameras open in a small tab below. “Well. You can go back to sleep if you’d like. I’m gonna keep watching the security footage.” 

 

“Fix your door,” I grumble, curling back under the covers. After a moment of staring at the clock and listening to Jeff trying (and failing) to type quietly, I roll over, shuffle closer, and plop my head down into his lap. 

 

Jeff tenses.

 

“Get a boner and I get to kill you,” I mumble, staring at his screen. “And you still haven’t fixed your door.” 

 

“What’s wrong with my door?” 

 

“It’s made out of birch. And your house is made out of - what is that shit?” 

 

“It’s a mix of cobblestone, oak, and andesite.” 

 

“What the fuck.” 

 

“And some dirt.” 

 

I groan and close my eyes. “Alright. Don’t type so loud. And if I hear you singing Revenge at any point in the night, I’m going to bite your dick.” 

 

“Awfully bold of you to assume I wouldn’t enjo -” 

  
“Do not finish that sentence.” 

  


* * *

 

 

I have a dream about home. 

 

It doesn’t feel like a dream. Not even a flashback. It’s more like a memory that I’ve stepped back into. 

 

I forgot how quiet our home always was, how dark. Anaïs always had the curtains drawn. We only had one lamp in the house, an old one she bought from a thrift store with a brown shade and a sickly yellow light. Neither of us knew how to properly change a bulb. That was something Abrielle taught me when I was sixteen. 

 

Our house in the woods was old. Even when Anaïs and I scraped together enough money to pay our power bills, the house didn’t heat properly. And it was creaky. I memorized the places to step where the floorboards wouldn’t groan, so that I wouldn’t set Anaïs off into one of her episodes. 

 

For my tenth birthday, a teacher at school bought me a book about killer whales. I kept it underneath my pillow. Anaïs wouldn’t read it to me. She had a _pas d’anglais_ rule. And I always felt so ashamed because I could never understand everything she was saying in French. 

 

I somehow end up in my room. The old box TV with the plants on top of it is sitting on the crate I used as a bedside table. My clothes are hanging out of an old and chipped dresser Anaïs bought from the Goodwill. The light from the window seems dirty. It’s hot in my room, like it always was in summer. I would go down to the creek behind Anaïs’s back and play in the water. Climb in through my window and tell her I took a shower when she’d ask why my hair was wet. And then I’d watch her dance on the porch until midnight while I made a cup of tea in a 20 year old mug. 

 

Sometimes my mother would let me play music while she danced. I’d always choose French songs to make her happy, even though I didn’t know what they were saying half the time. But seeing her smiling and singing along, occasionally dragging me out of my rocking chair to dance with her, made me happy too. I didn’t need to know the words. 

 

God. I miss her so much. 

 

Jeff is running his fingers through my hair when I wake up. He’s still messing around with the security footage. It feels late in the afternoon and he smells like cinnamon. 

 

“Hey,” he says, not looking away from the screen. 

 

I shuffle closer to him. “Mm. Coucou.” 

 

Jeff brushes my hair out of my face and moves the laptop so I can see the screen. “I think I found something. He met up with a guy a few hours ago. Went into the casino, but I haven’t seen him in the hall yet, so he’s not at the arcade.” 

 

“Mhm.” I tuck my head underneath his arm and squint as the light from the laptop stings my eyes. “How long have I been asleep?” 

 

“About four hours.” 

 

“Oh. Shit. I’m sorry.” 

 

Jeff shrugs and resumes playing with my hair. “I don’t mind being a pillow. But we should probably start heading down to the arcade so we don’t miss him. It looked like he had a briefcase with him. It had the SDSC logo on it.” 

 

I sit up and stretch. “Alright. What’re we gonna do?” 

 

“Follow him around, I guess. Try not to get shot.” Jeff closes the laptop and starts pulling a myriad of weapons out of his gym bag. He tosses me a gun and some knives. “Take these. You can’t use your fire in a tight space with a hundred or so people in there.” 

 

“I don’t know how to use this,” I say, holding up the gun. 

 

“Pull the trigger and hope to God the barrel is pointing in the opposite direction.” 

 

“Thanks. Asshole.” 

 

While I’m putting on my darkest clothing, Jeff puts his hair in a bun and _wow_ he looks good with an undercut. 

 

“So what exactly did you do with the Flatwoods?” I ask, trying not to stare when he puts on a black turtleneck with sleeves that cover the backs of his hands. To hide his scars, maybe. “I know you killed people.”

 

“Mostly corrupt government officials and shit,” Jeff says uninterestedly. “We had investments with a lot of business owners who had enemies and whatnot, and it was my job to sort of . . . protect them. You’d be surprised with how many rich shits want PCP.” 

 

“So it was a drug cartel?” 

 

Jeff slips some throwing knives up his sleeves and a couple in the slits in his belt. I feel so . . . underprepared. “No, not really. We mostly dealt with information. You know the guy who ran for senate in 2010 and dropped out of the race within like . . . a couple of months?” 

 

“Yeah, I think so.” 

 

“He was a pedophile, and I leaked his search history to the authorities. Unfortunately he was good friends with the CEO of a huge company, and he got away with it. So I had to kill him.” Jeff finishes arming himself and grabs a jacket. “I also did contracts. So, if a government official wanted another government official dead for political reasons, Cedar and I would usually find out everything we could about them and then take care of it if we deemed it necessary.” 

 

We both grab our bags and start heading out of the room. We’ll probably have to immediately make a run for it after we get the information. Jeff imagines we’ll trip off some sort of security immediately after getting into the tunnel, and that might result in a swarm of police that neither of us feel like dealing with. 

 

“Were you and Cedar close?” I ask once we get outside to the truck. 

 

Jeff’s fingers hesitate over the door handle. “Well . . . yeah, I guess.” 

 

“You guess?”

 

“We were together for a while, up until I left to work for Slenderman when I was around seventeen. But it . . . wasn’t a healthy relationship. He was four years older and a bit insane.” Jeff tosses our bags in the truck and locks it. He slips the key into a hole above the tire. The spare key he puts on a small hook on the inside of his boot. 

 

We start heading towards the arcade. I didn’t expect it to be crowded at 11 in the morning, but I’d be wrong. There are so many cars in the parking lot that it’s difficult to get to the front door. Jeff walks like he’s on his way to kill Captain America; head up, shoulders set, face spelling murder. I warm up the palms of my hands. 

 

I’m not certain what I was expecting, but I’m not surprised by the arcade. It’s dark, only really lit up by strobe lights and neon signs. I can barely hear my thoughts over the mix of children screaming and the music blasting through the speakers. 

 

I grab Jeff’s hand and tug on it until he stops walking. “What the hell are we doing?” I shout over the music. 

 

He says something that I can’t hear over _Party In The USA_.

  
I try to remember what little ASL he taught me for situations like this and sign _what?_

 

Jeff tugs me over into a corner and leans in until I can feel his breath against my ear. “We’re trying to find a neckbeard in a red hat carrying a briefcase,” he says. I nod and quickly pat my hands on my legs before they catch on fire. “Also, after this, you’re driving.” 

 

“Gotcha,” I say, looking past him so I won’t have to face the intensity in his eyes. As soon as I look away, I see a neckbeard in a red hat carrying a briefcase. The symbol of the SDSC is painted on the side of it. My jaw drops. 

 

Jeff turns around as well and frowns. The man looks around a few times before going into the laser tag arena. “That was too easy.” 

 

“Think they know we’re here?” 

 

“They probably have access to the security footage too,” he says, taking my hand and dragging me through the crowd towards the arena. “Damn. I thought we were being somewhat inconspicuous.” 

 

“Here’s a tip on being inconspicuous: Try not walking into places like you’re the fucking Winter Soldier.” 

 

Jeff rolls his eyes and weaves us through the crowd, right through the line to the arena, past the guard, and into the room. It’s so dark that I can’t see two feet in front of me, and the air is suffocating. And it’s _hot_. Holy shit it’s so hot in here. And it smells like sweat. 

 

“Holy _fuck_ ,” I wheeze. 

 

“Where the fuck did he go?” 

 

“There might be some secret exit.” 

 

Jeff and I kneel in a corner while kids start filing in and splitting up into teams. He frowns. “Well, chances are he knew we were following him and went in here to get us off his back for a while. But I was looking at the blueprints to this place earlier, and the way it’s built, you’d have to have a tunnel through several feet of concrete to get out through anywhere other than the main door. That’s why it’s so hot. Solid insulation and no vents for AC.” 

 

“Uh, isn’t that a health hazard?” 

 

“Oh, definitely.” 

 

The speakers crackle, and then an overly eccentric voice booms over the arena; “ _THREE MINUTES_!”

 

“We’re going to get butchered,” I say dryly. 

 

“By children with Nerf guns or by actual weapons?” 

 

“Both, probably. Bastard stuck us in here to wear us out with kids so it’s easier for him to finish us off.” 

 

Jeff surprises me by laughing. It’s the first time I’ve heard him genuinely laugh. And holy shit. 

 

“Just sit in the corner,” he says, kicking a giant purple block to shield us from the smoke in the air. Red lasers start shooting down from the ceiling, serving as barriers for the two teams. I hear the kids shrieking as the announcer begins counting down from thirty seconds. “Give me a Nerf gun and I’ll obliterate them.” 

 

“Jeff you can’t obliterate children.” 

 

“This is war, Rowan. There is no such thing as rules.” 

 

“You’re -” 

 

Right as the music starts, Jeff kicks one of the foam blocks towards me and disappears through the smoke. 

 

“You asshole!” I shout, scrambling up after him. 

 

It’s a struggle to make out anything through the hazy air. The smoke is way too thick to be healthy, and the loud music and flashing neon lights make it impossible to focus on one thing at a time. Something small whips past my head. Then it hits something behind me and I hear a kid screaming. 

 

I stay close to the wall and squint through the smoke. Jeff’s wearing a red jacket. That shouldn’t be too hard to find. 

 

After a few minutes of struggling not to trip over the foam blocks, I catch a glimpse of red through the neon smoke and start making my way towards it. I don’t get halfway across the space before it disappears through the smoke. 

 

“Son of a bitch,” I grumble, squinting through the lights. I see the shadows of children running around. It’s a miracle I haven’t gotten shot in the face or trampled yet. 

 

I feel a sudden breath on the back of my neck and spin around so fast that Jeff’s knee comes in direct contact with my ribcage. 

 

Jeff grabs me and pushes me into a corner while I struggle to breathe. His face seems unusually pale under the blue light from the neon strips above us. His hair is a mess. “I found our guy, but between the smoke and the music and the kids, it’s gonna be impossible for confrontation. Best bet is to stay by the door and get ready for when the twenty minutes end so we can grab him on his way out.” 

 

“Jeff. The door is on the other side of the arena.” 

 

“Good observation. And?” 

 

“ _Jeff_. I’m not running through the center of a fucking kindergarten battlefield.” I reach over and pluck a Nerf dart from his mess of curls. “Do you not have any silencers on your guns?” 

 

“No. They’re Desert Eagles.” 

 

 “Don’t know what that means.” 

 

Jeff nudges my hand and holds his out. “They’re not going to see us through the smoke so long as we stay away from the forts the little fuckers have built. The guy we’re looking for will probably be near the door too, since . . .” He frowns. “Still no idea why he led us in here.” 

 

The back of my neck prickles. “Unless they’re planning on putting chemicals in the smoke machines or something. Like a gas chamber.” 

 

“Not with kids.” He doesn’t sound completely convinced. “If that does start happening, you can just blow everything up.” 

 

“That’ll kill everyone in this room but me.” 

 

Jeff shrugs. “It’s better than us all dying via chlorine gas.” 

 

The thought of watching Jeff burn to ashes in front of me makes me feel sick. 

 

“Hey.” Jeff puts a hand on my shoulder. “Ready to go?” 

 

“If I get shot in the eye -” 

 

“You aren’t going to get shot in the eye.” 

 

“Famous last words.” 

 

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, it’s not that scary. They’re Nerf darts, Rowan. Come on. It’s probably already been ten minutes.”

 

Jeff jerks the two of us forwards right as a dart flies past my ear and hits a foam structure beside me. I clutch his hand and run as fast as I can, struggling to keep on my feet between weaving between the foam blocks and keeping up with Jeff. He’s faster than I am. I can only keep up with him thanks to the smoke. 

 

The music suddenly changes to something much louder. Something you’d expect from a rave, not a kid’s laser tag arena. It completely drowns out the shouting in the area. I hold Jeff’s hand tighter, afraid of him letting go and getting lost in the smoke and strobes again. 

 

Another dart flies past my head. I jerk to avoid getting hit by a kid running past and stumble over a block. It’s enough of a mess-up to send Jeff almost sprawling into me as my shoulder pops. 

 

Jeff grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls me into a corner. Then he gags. 

 

I panic, thinking back to the brief discussion about the use of chemicals, “Are you alright?” 

 

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, laughing in between breaths. “It’s just the smoke. Shit’s making my lungs burn.” 

 

“Jesus, fuck - are you sure you’re fine?” 

 

Jeff straightens up and brushes his hair out of his face. His forehead is sweaty enough for him to slick his bangs back. They stick straight up. “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll probably get sick later on tonight and throw up. But - have you seen him?” 

 

“The guy? No.” I reach over and grab another Nerf dart from the inside of his jacket. “He’s probably not running straight through a war zone full of children.”

 

Jeff just laughs, eyes reflecting the bright neon lights of the arena. I can’t hear him laughing amidst the pounding music and the rushing of my heart in my ears. Holy fuck. He’s beautiful.

 

Jeff shouts something over the music, but I’m already two steps forwards, the danger forgotten in the back of my mind somewhere. My brain doesn’t catch up with my body until I’ve completely pushed him in the corner, holding his chin. His eyes are wide - barely breathing - and I can see the pink fluorescent lights reflecting the gold in them. I feel his hands trailing along the hem of my shirt, and then a small tug. And then I kiss him. 

 

I kind of expect him to pull away, because at first he’s completely still, but he eventually takes either side of my face and jerks me closer to him into the corner. 

 

Shit. His lips.

 

He knots his fists into my shirt and pulls me closer, and I press myself against him, sandwiching him between myself and the wall, suddenly overcome with the need to feel every inch of him. 

 

My fingers find their way through his hair, slicked with sweat and tangled like always, and I tug, enjoying the way he moans and arches off the wall. I run my hand under his shirt, and my fingers brush past the hem of his jeans, and his breath stutters for a moment.

 

The music abruptly shuts off, and the lights turn on full blast, and Jeff and I both jump. 

 

I quickly untangle myself from him and look around. The speakers crackle back in and announce that the time is over and Team Red won. I turn my attention to Jeff, who’s still in the corner straightening his clothes, and I have to suppress a grin when I see how red his face is. He looks up and meets my gaze. 

 

“What’s going on?” he asks, his voice sounding utterly wrecked. 

 

“Time’s up, I guess,” I say. Most of the kids are already either coming to their senses, regrouping, or getting pissed over losing. I grab his wrist and quickly lead us out of the arena before the swarm of children can block us in. I don’t see the man with the red hat. 

 

I feel like I’m going to throw up. 

 

“Wh-Wait.” Jeff digs his heels into the ground and wrenches his arm from my grip. I stop walking and stare at the ground, ignoring how red my face goes and how much ash is falling from my hair. I can’t look at him. I can’t tell if he’s angry or not. 

 

“Rowan.” 

 

My skin is going to melt off. 

 

“Rowan?” 

 

Oh God. What if I catch on fire? 

 

“ _Rowan_.” Jeff puts a cold hand on my jaw. “You’re smoking. Calm down.” 

 

I blink back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I’m sorry.” 

 

Jeff stares at me for a moment in confusion. “You . . . don’t have to apologize for something t -” 

 

He stops talking, and his eyes focus on something behind me. I turn around and watch our target pick up the briefcase from a box in the corner of the arcade, away from the crowd, and slip in through a hidden door behind a few arcade games. 

 

“He has a gun,” I hear Jeff breathe. “Rowan, I want you to stay up here. If anything goes wrong, then leave.” 

 

I swallow the panic rising in my throat. “Where are you going?” 

 

“Through that door. Give me half an hour.” Jeff pats himself down, and I see him slipping a gun up his sleeve. He hesitates before he walks away.

 

“And don’t do anything stupid,” he adds, before he leans in and kisses me, lingering for a moment afterwards where I can feel his breath on my lips. Then he leans away, gives me a thumbs-up, and disappears into the sea of people. 

 

I just stand there and stare blankly in the direction he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god i'm so sorry i can't write romance all i ever write is angst and 3 a.m. slam poetry dlfkjdslnfkdf


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a super short chapter in which yet another person dies horribly

Peggy Steinberg calmly watches him from across the room. 

 

How lovely the way Coleman writhes, so desperate to escape. He must know by now there’s no possibility of survival. It’s wonderful how much they’ll put up a fight, even when they know they aren’t leaving alive. 

 

Peggy stands still, hands behind her back, two snarling dogs, one a rottweiler and one a massive great dane, on either side of her. She feels the tension from the smaller, wilder of the two beasts. A smile tugs on the side of her lips. 

 

“Moses.” 

 

The rottweiler lunges, tearing into Coleman’s already battered torso. She closes her eyes and soaks in the screams, the growling, the sweet razing of flesh. She doesn’t open her eyes until Coleman’s cries are reduced to gurgled moans before he goes silent. Despite the flesh torn from his bones, the muscles beating, bleeding, exposed to the air where Moses’s claws have struck, he’s still alive, moaning weakly, choking on the blood rising from his collapsed lungs. 

 

“It is a shame,” Peggy says, “how desperate you are to continue surviving. Now I feel bad.” 

 

Coleman’s cloudy blue eyes move over to her. 

 

“If it brings you peace, Coleman Truden, the lucidity in which you endured your torture, in my opinion, will crown you victorious in the eyes of your God,” she continues calmly. It _is_ interesting how well he put up to razor-sharp spears of ice digging through his muscles and bones. How quickly he gave up everything he knew when Peggy tore off the first fingernail. “I find it so odd how much people are willing to endure for an entity they have never seen. Perhaps you will end up in God’s arms. Nevertheless, I’m afraid you’re of no more use to me.” 

 

She nods towards the great dane, a hulking black shadow behind her. Coleman’s eyes widen in terror, as if he hadn’t realized the beast was there. 

 

Lilith lunges, and finishes him off when she wraps her massive jaws around his neck and bites down. 

 

While both the dogs slink off to wait for Peggy, she kneels beside Coleman’s mangled body and lifts his sleeves. The familiar black markings are there, like tendrils etched into his skin. A disease. A few more days and he would have ended up like Topher Gros, a writhing mess, veins bursting beneath his flesh until his skin blossomed red and blue. He would have twisted himself into one of those . . . things.

 

She stands, looking over at the wall of television screens, all in black in white, some buzzing static through the room. It’s impressive how well the SDSC keeps in touch with their agents - there are at least twenty different locations all across the United States on display here, in perfect detail. Maps and charts, documents and patient records. But nothing is of use to her. Her files aren’t here. 

 

She notices a flash of movement down a long corridor. 

 

Peggy steps over Coleman’s mangled body and watches the two figures on the screen running down the hallway, hand in hand. A tall man with curly dark hair and a woman wearing a tattered bomber jacket. For a moment she thinks it might be Tristan. But this woman has darker skin, thinner legs. She pushes her disappointment deep down inside of her, where it won’t bother her, won’t make her ribs ache. 

 

“Moses, Lilith,” she murmurs. The two dogs stand to attention. 

 

Peggy kicks Coleman’s body out of the way and slips her knife back up her sleeve. 

 

“It’s time to go home.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which i cannot write a fight scene . . . but we do have lady gaga.

_ Calm the fuck down, Jeff. _

 

It’s what Common Sense screams as soon as I slide to the floor once I close the door behind me. And I really should be calming down. That’s hard to do when I can feel my heart in my throat and my lips are still tingling.

 

_ You’re fucking pathetic _ , I can hear Common Sense chiding. 

 

At least I’ve found the tunnel. It’s definitely the same one I saw in the security footage; white all around, long fluorescent lights, and an elevator at the very end. I can hear faint music - different than what was playing a moment ago in the arcade. I hope Rowan is alright. 

 

My fingers stop trembling as soon as I have a gun in my hands, almost as though my body knows it’s time to stop thinking and turn back into the Flatwoods Killer. The music gets louder the further I go down the hallway - I quickly realize that I’m not at the junction I saw in the security footage. There was no map of this place. So I follow the music.

 

I end up in a small room with a few doors on either side. I look up at the security camera above the central door. It doesn’t appear to be on, but I still doubt I’ve gone unnoticed. It’s the perfect setup to get the shit kicked out of me. 

 

The music gets louder as I walk towards the central door. So that’s the one I go through. 

 

The bleak, white scenery immediately changes to darkness and strobe lights. The walls shake with the intensity of the bass. I tuck my gun back under my shirt when I realize what I’ve walked into.

 

It’s a . . . strip club? It certainly looks like one. And holy fuck. It’s  _ packed.  _

 

I slip my way through the crowd. The whole room smells like sweat and stale perfume. It has the same atmosphere and smoke rolling low across the ground as the arena - maybe the architecture belongs to the arcade, not the motel. 

 

I look around at the dancers and the people watching them - mostly men, older ones, with an odd air of authority about them. They all have the gait and appearance of conceited businessmen or politicians. So I take it that this establishment isn’t something common people know about. Probably part of an organization - I think I remember the Flatwoods having something like this in one of the upper floors of the dorm building. Definitely not as extravagant, though. 

 

A man in a corner catches my eye. Despite the light being dim, he’s wearing a pair of sunglasses. He’s tall, and even from here I can see he’s ripped as hell and hiding at least three guns on his person. It looks like he’s guarding a doorway, with nothing but a bead curtain separating it from the club. 

 

He doesn’t seem to notice me until I’m right in front of him, pressing a knife against his throat. 

 

I feel his muscles tense against the blade, digging it into his skin further. 

 

“Jeffrey Camilo Hodek,” I say quietly. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

 

He lets out a low, animalistic growl. “You with the Flatwoods?” 

 

I roll my eyes. “No. I’m with . . .” I glance around, give him an illusion of confidentiality. “I’m with the SDSC. I’m here on official business. Need to speak with the man who was in charge of Epsilon.” 

 

He grunts. “You need Marcel, then.” 

 

“Marcel? That doesn’t sound familiar.” I’d gone through the names of everyone who was involved in Epsilon that I could remember - Marcel  _ definitely _ isn’t one of them. “Is he in charge of the current operation? Is he here?” 

 

“Marcel’s here,” the guard says roughly. “But if it isn’t strictly SIGMA business, then you should be on your way. He doesn’t have time to waste with you.” 

 

I nod. “Thank you. Can you point me in the right direction?” 

 

“Right through here. Down the hall, through the old station,” he grumbles. “Go through a red door. He’s in room 05.” 

 

“Thank you.” 

 

“Mhm.” 

 

I awkwardly slide past him through the curtain. It leads to a small room, probably used to be a storage closet, with a massive hole in the wall for a doorway. So much for the fancy decoration. The walls must be thin as fucking paper, because even when I make it to the hallway, I can hear the music just as well as I did in the strip club. 

 

There isn’t much lighting in the hallway. Everything’s baby blue and black tile, and the only light fixtures are flickering LED’s above, and it does seem like it used to be an old subway. But that doesn’t make sense. Why would there be a train station underneath Las Vegas? 

 

A quick chill runs down my spine, but I don’t hesitate. The fucker upstairs must have alerted all the guards that I was acting suspicious. They’re doing a terrible job at spying. 

 

I reach the other side of the hallway, ignoring the doorways until I get to the staircase at the end. I can still hear the music from not even a floor above. It sounds like Poker Face. 

 

I don’t risk taking my gun out and having the guards see. I’ll just have to trust that they don’t follow me down the staircase. I go down it slowly, trying to listen past the music to see if I hear footsteps, conversation, anything. But it’s just Lady Gaga and my own boots against the tiled floor. 

 

I reach the bottom, and I don’t have time to pull a weapon out before I feel the cool metal of a gun barrel against the side of my head. 

 

The ground rumbles as a train approaches. I whip my arm up as fast as I can and knock the gun aside. The guard lets out a stunned cry that gets cut off when I drag a knife across his throat, hitting his carotids. I duck to avoid the spray of blood. 

 

A gunshot rings throughout the cavern above the music. I feel a hot pain in my shoulder, and a flurry of dust hits a supporting pillar in front of me. The bullet only grazed. 

 

When the train rushes through the station, the lights begin flickering worse, and it’s difficult for me to focus over the music and the lights. I blindly fire in the direction of the gunfire. I hear a scream. 

 

_ Calm down, _ I tell myself, ducking behind one of the pillars. The train doesn’t look like it’s going to end anytime soon, and the lights won’t stop flashing.  _ Stop thinking. _

 

Personally I’d rather kill people to Shakira, but Poker Face will do. 

 

I see the flash of a gun as soon as I step around the pillar and bring my leg up, the tip of my boot connecting with his elbow so hard I see it bend. The guard drops his gun as I throw him to the side and put a bullet in his head. 

 

I try paying attention to the lyrics. Find a rhythm that I can work to. 

 

_ I wanna roll with him a hard pair we will be _

 

Another sharp pain shoots up my leg. I barely have enough time to dodge another poorly aimed bullet and quickly close the space between the guard and I, firing up into his helmet the same time I thrust my knife in and out of his shoulder. 

 

_ A little gambling is fun when you're with me, I love it _

 

I twirl around to dodge when one of the guards rushes towards me with nothing but a knife. I grab his arm, pop his shoulder out of place in one fluid motion, dig my fingers in his hair, and slam his head so hard against the pillar that blood splatters across the wall and floors. He slumps to the ground. 

 

_ Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun _

 

I wrench a pistol from another man’s hands, duck a blow to the head, and fire in the direction of a group of them descending down the stairs. Only one of them falls, tripping a few others along with him. The train is still going. 

 

_ And baby when it's love if it's not rough it isn't fun _

 

The first one to reach me immediately forgets about his gun and lunges for my throat. I slip quickly to the side and ram my elbow into the side of his helmet, jerking it off so hard it catches on his jaw and whips his head back. I grab the front of his uniform and throw him against the train. 

 

I don’t even see him whirring past me as his shirt catches, but I do see when his body hits the tunnel and explodes, sending gore and shreds of flesh and clothing all over the station. 

 

I wipe his blood from my face and turn around quick enough to intercept a knife. He’s not wearing a helmet, so my fingers immediately find their way into his hair. I swing him around, knocking his legs out from underneath him, and press my knee against the back of his neck. 

 

I pull up on his hair. His neck snaps. 

 

_ Can't read my, can't read my _

 

Three more. 

 

_ No he can't read my poker face _

 

I move behind a pillar, pull a few throwing knives out of my boots, and rush towards the remaining three guards. 

 

One of them manages to fire. I throw a knife so hard it pops my shoulder painfully and goes straight through his neck, sticking in to the wall behind him. 

 

The other two turn to look at him in shock, and I take the moment to grab one and wrestle the gun out of his hands. He manages to make me stumble. I grab the front of his shirt, bring his head down, and thrust my knee up against his jaw. He bites his tongue clean off and slumps to the ground. I put a bullet in him for good measure. 

 

I turn around and miss the swing of the remaining’s man’s fist. 

 

Not a good punch. But enough to make my head whip back and I stumble back a few paces, my back hitting a bloodstained pillar. I move to the side when he fires, but the bullet still hits my shoulder. 

 

The pain breaks through my wall of adrenaline, shattering my lack of focus. I double over and check the wall - there’s a dent where the bullet hit. It went straight through my shoulder. 

 

I dropped my gun when I got shot, and it’s too far for me to run to without risking getting shot again. So I twirl around the pillar and quickly look around for a weapon. There’s a sharp metal pole, a shard from the train when I threw that guard into it. 

 

I grab onto a bent part, take a deep breath, and sprint towards the remaining guard. I can already tell he’s much younger than the men who came in here with him, much more darker and frightened. He’s wearing a cross necklace. 

 

I spin the pole and slam the blunt part into his jugular. His whole body goes rigid. He drops the gun and collapses to the ground. I press the sharpest point of the rod against his chest and lean down. 

 

“Adelante, reza a Dios,” I snarl. His eyes go wide. 

 

It makes a wet, crunching noise when I run him through. He struggles for a moment before going still, his eyes rolling back in his head. I reach forward and snap the cross necklace off, wiping the blood off on my shirt before pressing it into his hands where the police will be able to easily find it. 

 

I pull a bandage from my pocket and wrap it tightly around my arm. The pain is gone, replaced by a sharp, dull throbbing. I’ll have to have Aeron cauterize it. 

 

_ Room 05 _ . I repeat it in my head until I’ve managed to stumble my way through the hall of flashing lights past the station. I probably have only half an hour or so before someone alerts the police or sends more guards down. 

 

Marcel’s office is inconspicuous enough, just a normal door that doesn’t look out of place in the hallway. The lights are flickering as bad, so it’s not hard to read the tiny numbers etched into it. The plaque on the wall suggests it used to be a transportation office of some kind. 

 

It’s locked. I take a step back and bring the rod down on the doorknob. It hits and breaks it off, sending a painful shock up my arms. I drop the rod and kick the remains of the door open near the broken handle. 

 

The office lights are off, and I don’t see anyone inside. Marcel must not be here. I flick the lights on and take in the surroundings. 

 

There’s an odd array of TV’s on the longest desk. Some are boxed and don’t display in color, and others look more modern. They’re all security cameras, posted in several different areas. There’s another desk next to a bookshelf filled with boxes and binders and notebooks. On the wall a map is put up, and several thumbtacks are connecting different areas with polaroids, posters, and newspaper clippings with red string. 

 

It honestly looks like a scene out of a movie. I’m not even sure where to start. 

 

I shut the door behind me and barricade it with a chair. Not much protection, but it’ll do with a broken doorknob. I go ahead and start flipping through the papers on the table in the center of the room. Most of them are business transcripts and shit I have no idea how to interpret. They look like taxes. Or a contract. A shipment of . . . Subjects. 

 

_ Subjects _ . That could mean multiple different things. I hope to God it’s not what I think it is. 

 

It takes a while to go through all the boxes on the shelves. Most of them are police files, more records of transactions between multiple different business that are all owned by the Family, and files on their human test subjects. There are some missing person profiles from the early 90’s. 

 

The binders aren’t much help either. They have basically nothing to do with whatever SIGMA is or Epsilon. But there are some writings in what looks like Greek that I tear out and shove into my pocket. 

 

I turn to head towards the map, but a picture tacked to the wall catches my attention. 

 

It’s a man. He looks around my age. Curly auburn hair, bronze skin, and striking amber eyes. A familiar scar on his upper lip. My stomach sinks. 

 

It’s Cedar. 

 

I carefully remove his picture from the wall. Cedar looks the same as he did ten years ago. Still unfairly pretty, still smug. Why the hell would he be involved in all of this? It probably has something to do with Epsilon. 

 

That makes my blood run cold. What if they captured him? What if he’s dead? 

 

I gently fold the picture and slip it into my pocket. Then I turn to the map on the wall. 

 

There are more pictures, most of them of the same woman that I recognize by her creepy gold eyes and sleek reddish-brown hair. Her images are pinned in multiple locations, some of them with scraps of paper attached. I recognize a few newspaper articles about the fire at the motel Aeron caused. 

 

I carefully pick up a document lying on the table. It’s about Peggy. 

 

_ “Allow me to draw your attention to Peggy Steinberg. She’s one of the Elementalists, the only one we’ve had the opportunity to test on. Unfortunately she left some years ago, and now she’s being a nuisance. Somehow the Flatwoods are finding our outposts. We believe this is Steinberg’s fault. I’ve left some info for you - please take care of the bitch. We’re tired of her interfering with our plans.” _

 

I don’t bother reading the rest of the letter. An Elementalist? That . . . makes sense. Aeron is fire. Peggy is . . . water? Ice? That must mean there are more of them. 

 

I continue flipping through the documents. Each one confirms my thoughts: There are definitely more of whatever Aeron and Peggy are, and there’s another human breeding operation happening. The Family are funding it, just like last time, and the SDSC are the ones behind the science. They’re calling it SIGMA. 

 

And Peggy Steinberg is their biggest target. 

 

There’s a list here of everything she’s done. She’s killed over fifty of their scientists since 2016, destroyed their labs, hacked into their systems, burned one of their priests at the stake, and sold information to the Flatwoods. She’s been to labs all over the western side of the country, laying waste to any operation she can. 

 

They aren’t even concerned about Aeron. And that brings a horrible thought. That they’re not following us at all. They’re after Peggy. 

 

And Peggy’s after us. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Jeff meets me in the parking lot two hours after he went down to the tunnel. 

 

He’s covered in blood and grasping his arm. My stomach twists and I run towards him. 

 

“I’m fine,” Jeff wheezes. “Most of the blood isn’t mine.” 

 

“What the hell happened?” I throw his uninjured arm over my shoulder and help him to the back of the truck. I throw the tailgate down and help him sit up on it while I rummage around the boxes for a first aid kit. 

 

“A guy named Marcel is running a new project called SIGMA,” Jeff mumbles. “It’s another breeding operation. They’re creating the skinwalkers. They call them the Blessed. And . . . And they aren’t after us.” 

 

I freeze. “What?” 

 

“They’re after Peggy, not us.” 

 

“Peggy? So she’s alive?” 

 

“She’s definitely alive. And she’s been fucking up their operation for years now. Under our noses. The . . . the Flatwoods have been receiving information from her. And I think she’s been communicating with Cedar.” 

 

I dip a washcloth in cool water and start wiping the blood from his arm. Jeff leans against me and closes his eyes. “Cedar,” I say slowly, gently moving scraps of cloth away from the wound. It doesn’t look too bad, thank fucking God. “That’s . . . You used to work for him, right?” 

 

“I worked for Elijah. Me and Cedar were partners.” Jeff lets out a shaky breath. “We destroyed Epsilon’s main laboratory. But apparently enough of them survived to start another operation. I don’t know where their victims are coming from, but since Peggy was supposed to become a Blessed, and given her past, I’m guessing they’re preying on vulnerable religious families. Or cults.” 

 

Jeff sounds like he’s holding back tears. “I - I don’t know who the man with the briefcase was. I didn’t see him again.” 

 

“That’s okay,” I say quietly. “Did the bullet go deep?” 

 

“No.” He presses his head against my shoulder. “No, I think I’ll be fine.” 

 

“You should probably ditch those clothes.” 

 

Jeff chuckles tiredly. “So much fucking blood. I’ll probably get an STD now.” 

 

I help him peel his bloodstained jacket off. Jeff gingerly removes some paper from the inside pockets. One of them is a photo of a man with red hair. “Is that Cedar?” I ask. 

 

“Yeah.” Jeff manages to get one arm out of his shirt before he gives up, too tired to continue. I help him take the rest of it off and toss it down onto the pavement. “Well. We should . . . probably tell Tristan that we have a definite answer on whether or not Peggy’s alive.” 

 

I wrap a fresh bandage around Jeff’s arm after cleaning the wound and tie it off. “That’d be smart. But we should get fucking far away from here first. If Peggy knows where we are, then she’s probably on her way. Were there any clues to if she’s gonna be friendly or not?” 

 

“No, not really. She didn’t attack us back then, though, so maybe we have nothing to worry about.” Jeff doesn’t sound convinced. I’m not either. But neither of us say anything else about it. 

 

“So about the blood,” I say slowly, “Do you really think we should find an STD test?” 

 

Jeff huffs. “I didn’t get any in my mouth. I’ll be fine.” 

 

“Wanna get back in the truck?” 

 

“I’ll get blood all over the seats.” 

 

“Well, take your pants off, then,” I grumble. Jeff grumbles. 

 

“Are there any towels?” 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Put that on the seat. I’m too tired.” 

 

Jeff seems a bit disappointed when I get up to search for one of the towels I’d taken from the hotel. I make a little space for him as fast as I can and then head back to the truck bed. Jeff’s struggling to take his boots off. A few knives fall out onto the concrete. 

 

“Come on.” I wrap his arm around my shoulder and help him walk to the truck. His knee seems to be hurting him too. I notice he isn’t putting much pressure on his left leg. “Did you hurt your knee?” 

 

“Twisted it a bit on the way back up. Had to run.” 

 

I help him into the passenger’s seat and hurry to collect the knives he’d dropped. Jeff’s shoulder pops when he shuts the door and he winces. 

 

Once both of us are safely in the truck, I turn the light on and lean back in my seat, breathing slowly. “That was . . .” 

 

“Wild,” Jeff mumbles, resting his head against the window. He closes his eyes. “I should have brought some weed.” 

 

“You aren’t getting baked within twenty yards of me.” 

 

“I’ve been told I’m very emotional when I’m high,” Jeff says, amusement on the edges of his voice. “Puppet says I’m fun.” 

 

I roll my eyes. “You’re already fun.” 

 

“Yeah. But I like you. I don’t like Puppet.” 

 

I bite back a smile. The lights of the city are soothing. Waiting for Jeff with no method of communication had stressed me out to the point of almost having a panic attack. I can’t imagine what it was like for Jeff. “I know you like me. You don’t have to remind me.” 

 

“Mm?” Jeff looks over and then winces. “Oh.” 

 

 “Do you wanna talk about it?” 

 

“When I’m not high on adrenaline.” 

 

“Okay.” 

 

Jeff closes his eyes and sighs, leaning his head back against the window. “It was . . . good, though.” 

 

I don’t really know how to respond. So I lower my voice to a murmur, keeping my eyes glued to the road; “I like you too. Despite you being an annoying asshole.” 

 

Jeff grins tiredly. “You’re so romantic.” 

 

“We’re getting divorced. And I’m getting full custody of Quakerman,” I snap at him. 

 

“Love you, dipshit.” 

 

“Bitch. Love you too.” 


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uhm.

I stop at a gas station, about five hundred miles from Margaret Hodek’s house.

 

Jeff’s still edging the line between being completely cracked out and fully conscious. He’d woken up some hours ago, managed to put on a shirt, and for the past few hours of driving on the road listening to Cavetown and Local Natives, he’s been singing along to whatever my iPod decides to play. He doesn’t know the words. But he can anticipate the melody and memorizes choruses. And he has a nice singing voice, despite being drunk on adrenaline and a harrowing lack of sleep, so I just sit back and listen to him. 

 

I come back to the truck with some pain pills, water, and a few medical supplies we didn’t have in the first aid kit. Jeff’s rummaging around in his gym bag when I get back to the truck and throw the bags in through the open window. 

 

“What’s up?” I ask, leaning against the door. 

 

Jeff pulls out his ukulele and shakily leans it against his knee. “Just making sure my arm isn’t too messed up,” he says. He sounds exhausted. “Haven’t had the pleasure of being shot in a while.” 

 

“You’re not in too much pain, are you?” 

 

He shrugs and absentmindedly plucks at a few strings. “Not really. I’m mostly just . . . sore everywhere. I think the bullet just grazed me.” 

 

“How many people were there?” I ask once I finish with the gas and jump back into the truck. 

 

Jeff sighs and begins playing a familiar tune. “I don’t know. Ten, fifteen, maybe?” 

 

My fingers tighten around the wheel. “And you . . . killed them all on your own?”

 

“Elijah fucking Sunderland was my mentor for, what, like three years?” Jeff almost sounds like he can’t believe it. “If I fucked up at all during training, he’d make me sit out in the snow with nothing but shorts on for five hours. And not to mention Cedar . . .” He trails off at this, and his notes stumble. “Cedar trained me too, but more for subterfuge.” 

 

“Subterfuge?” 

 

Jeff shrugs, adjusting his shaky hand so he can get his notes louder. “Deceit. Spy shit. Cedar did heavy work, I snuck in and out of places. I remember, this one time, I had to sneak into some guy’s mansion and get some information. His name was - fuck, what was it? Howard Langbrook.” He shivers at some memory. “I ended up killing him in a horrifically brutal way - we don’t talk about it - and Elijah punched me in the throat for it.” 

 

“What did Cedar do?” 

 

“Cedar couldn’t do anything without Elijah beating the shit out of him, too, so he just stood there and watched.” He frowns. “What confuses me about Cedar’s involvement with the Flatwoods is that he got kicked out a few years after I left. He got into some huge argument with Elijah and ended up attacking him. And I know Elijah Sunderland. He’d _never_ let Cedar back in - he was fucking sick of the guy. So I wonder how Cedar’s involved with them now.” 

 

“Unless the information is outdated.” 

 

“Nah. I doubt that. These fuckers are on top of things.” I recognize the song Jeff is playing. It’s Juliet by Cavetown. I’d play it on repeat while I was studying a few years ago, back before I gave up on continuing my own education. I’d thrown my college textbooks and all my notebooks in my closet and never tossed another glance in their direction. 

 

Jeff casually starts singing along when I don’t say anything else, too transfixed on the highway and my own thoughts. I glance in his direction. He looks much happier this way, not bothered by Slenderman or the SDSC, just sticking his legs out the window and playing his battered ukulele. I press my chin into my hand so he doesn’t see me smiling and turn back to the road. 

 

“When’d you fix your strings?” I ask when a country song comes on that Jeff doesn’t seem to recognize. 

 

“You don’t remember when I woke up for a solid thirty minutes, fixed it, and crashed again?” he says amusedly, plucking a few strings half-heartedly while he waits for the song to end. Now that he mentions it, I do remember. I’d just chugged two whole cans of Red Bull and had started realizing it was a bad idea. 

 

“Yeah, you were speaking Spanish,” I tell him. “I couldn’t tell what you were saying so I yelled back in French.”  

 

“I’m pretty certain you told me to go fuck myself.” 

 

“Yes, I did. Good observation.” _Va te faire foutre_. I guess I curse so much in French that Jeff’s started picking up on things. 

 

A song finally comes on that Jeff recognizes, although it’s in Spanish and I only understand a few words. He quickly bends down to mix through his bag. He tucks his ukulele under his arms and pops his eyeglass case open. 

 

“Have you finally got a headache?” I ask amusedly. 

 

“Dude, I feel like I’m an egg that’s just been cracked over a counter edge.” 

 

“Poetic. I like that in a man.” 

 

“Shut up,” he laughs, pushing his glasses up his nose. Then he gets a bit more serious. “So when we get to my mother’s house, what are we going to do?” 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“I mean . . .” Jeff frowns and stops playing his ukulele. “I mean she thinks I’m dead, you know? My disappearance case was dropped and it’s been so long that I’m now pretty much legally dead.” 

 

“Well, a body was never found,” I mention matter-of-factly. “And you know how parents are. She still believes you’re alive and well. She will until they find a body.” 

 

His frown deepens. 

 

“What happened to the rest of your family? Your father and brother?” I have a sliver of a notion of what happened. Jeff’s talked about it a bit before, and I read some of the documents. But I can’t tell what’s real and what Slenderman has told everyone else to paint Jeff as some bloodthirsty psychopath. 

 

Jeff leans back in his seat. “I’m not sure. There was a fire. I remember that. It was . . . in December, I think. It’d just started snowing. I blacked out and ended up outside. I remember the sirens. And thinking that I’d done it.” 

 

“Done what? The fire?” 

 

“. . . Yeah, I guess. I panicked. Mostly because I didn’t remember anything about the fire. One moment I was . . . in the house, and everything was fine, and then all of a sudden I’m covered in blood and lighter fluid and sitting out in the front yard watching it all burn.” 

 

“If Margaret survived, then wouldn’t it have been on the news?” 

 

Jeff’s voice is quiet. “I didn’t watch the news. Couldn’t.” 

 

I resist the urge to look at him and focus on the license plate of the car in front of us. “Do you think the SDSC had anything to do with it? Maybe they covered it up?” 

 

He huffs. “I was just a kid. I didn’t have anything to do with them back then.” 

 

 _What about your parents_ , is what I want to say, but I hear the final tone of his voice and keep quiet. Jeff resumes playing his ukulele, though he’s much slower and quieter now, staring off into the distant mountains like he’s lost in thought. 

 

“Are you sure your arm is fine?” I ask after a while, after he looks away from the mountains. 

 

“Yeah. I think I’ll be fine. How long do we have?” 

 

“About . . . seven or eight hours.” I have to squint to pay attention to the road, otherwise things start getting fuzzy. I’m running low on iron already. “Hopefully your mom doesn’t try and shoot us.”

 

“Nah. Margaret wouldn’t hurt anyone.” 

 

“People change.” 

 

Jeff shrugs. “Maybe. But I doubt she’s going to enjoy seeing my face after, what, almost ten years? Longer than that, maybe. I burned our house down. Got Liu killed. I wonder what Peter’s up to.” 

 

“It didn’t seem like he’s alive on the documents I found in Slenderman’s office.” 

 

Again, he shrugs, and I realize that Jeff doesn’t really give a shit about his father. I wonder how abusive he was. “He probably overdosed in prison or got shot. Wouldn’t be surprised.” 

 

I don’t say anything after that. I don’t have much else _to_ say. Jeff plays the ukulele for a while before his bad arm gets worn out and he tucks his instrument back into its bag. About two hours in he falls asleep with his head resting against the window. 

 

When I can’t take the silence, I stick my knee against the steering wheel and scroll through my playlists. I tap the one called _Mom’s music_ and scroll down until I find the spot where I’d left. It stops with her old French love songs, the ones she would dance to on the porch, and switches to newer ones. Ones that I kept adding to the playlist, hoping that one day I’d be able to show them to her. 

 

I choose Pauline by Pomme. The first one I’d added after I’d had the courage to even look at Anaïs’s playlist. I turn it down so it doesn’t wake Jeff up and turn back to the road. 

 

I drive for about an hour and a half before my head starts to hurt and I pull over near a cliff overlooking the mountain ranges and the approaching sunset. Jeff wakes up a few seconds before I turn the truck off. He shifts and glances over. “You alright?” he mumbles.

 

“Headache,” I explain. I ignore the sharp pain in my arm where those black veins are. “I’m tired. Probably shouldn’t drive. Do you want to sleep here for the night and drive all day tomorrow?” 

 

“Is it safe? With Peggy probably following us?” 

 

“I tried hiding the truck.” I turn on the light and look out over the fields and the mountains beyond that. 

 

Jeff clambers out of the truck, sticks his foot on the open window, and heaves himself up to sit on the roof. I follow him, standing near the edge of the cliff. There’s a thin wooden fence there. Part of it near the edge is broken. 

 

“Not a good vantage point,” he says, dangling his feet off the edge of the truck. “We’re up on a hill, which means we can see her coming, but she can also see us. And if we do get attacked, the cliff can be used against us.” 

 

“Well, let’s not get attacked, then.” 

 

“Do you have enough energy to use your fire if we get attacked by the SDSC? By Peggy?” he counters. I bite the inside of my mouth. “They’re going to be coming after us. We need to be prepared.” 

 

“And why is that?” I snap. “Why would they suddenly come after us if their target has been Peggy for years?” 

 

Jeff’s face goes slack and his arm falls to his side. “Look, I just - I had to let them know I had affiliations with the SDSC -” 

 

“In the station? Under the arcade?” My blood starts to boil. I swallow down the electricity in my throat. “Did you tell them your name? Did - do they know we’re after them now?” 

 

“They don’t know we’re after them.” 

 

“ _You killed people_! Of fucking course they know we’re after them!” 

 

Jeff’s quiet for a while. Don’t really know if he’s trying not to start getting pissed or if he’s thinking of something to say to calm me down before I accidentally blow up. “N . . . No. They can’t afford to target us and Peggy. Peggy’s after us, that’s a given, but she _was_ sending information back and forth. She must have found something.” 

 

“Don’t change the subject,” I say hotly. 

 

“I’m not. I’m _saying_ that Peggy might know something that she wants us to know. Which would explain why she’s following us and hasn’t obliterated you yet.” 

 

“Then why the fuck wouldn’t she have stopped the truck?” I remember how the air had felt shaky, violent, and empty all at once when we saw the woman back at the motel. The atmosphere trembles at my magic, but it doesn’t _change_. Doesn’t warp. Doesn’t pull at your skin like Peggy’s magic did. “She could have. I can sense magic better than anyone else. Hers is . . . different. It’s stronger than mine.”

 

“If she was trying to kill us, wouldn’t she have attacked us on sight, though?” 

 

I glance back at the truck. The windows _are_ a little tinted. And she was wearing a motorcycle helmet. “She might not have known it was us. Peggy’s never seen either of us, has she?” 

 

“Probably not recent pictures, if she has.” 

 

I let out a shaky breath and lean against the truck next to Jeff’s legs. “Tristan needs to know this.” 

 

“Hand me the laptop. I’ll try to get ahold of her.” 

 

I lean in through the window and shuffle around the mess of blankets and crumpled up paper for Tristan’s laptop. Jeff climbs into the bed of the truck once I hand it to him. I join him with a few blankets and a pillow hardly big enough for one person. 

 

While I set up a messy pile of blankets, Jeff messes with the laptop. After a while he frowns and twirls it around to show me. “Last time she was online was when she sent us that message.”

 

I think back to the odd part of her message. _Had to deal with Brian_. “Hopefully she’s just busy.” 

 

He shrugs and closes the laptop. “Yeah.”

 

“I’m sorry for getting upset.” 

 

“Nah. It was stupid giving my name.” Jeff leans against the tailgate and stretches out. I swear he’s all leg. “I asked what happened with Brian. She didn’t respond. I just _hope_ they got into an argument and she didn’t kill him.” 

 

I take note of the bitterness in his voice. “Are you and Tristan close?” 

 

“Not really. I started talking to her when you did.” He slides down further, kicking my shoe with his foot. “I used to be fucking terrified of her. When I was younger. I met a whole bunch of different people under the Flatwoods, but Tristan’s . . . _really_ different, you know?” 

 

“Well, she does have iron teeth.” 

 

“Yeah. And that’s fucking terrifying. The fact that only a couple of her teeth are iron is scarier than if they were _all_ iron,” he says, raising his hands for emphasis. “‘Cause that means she’s already learned _how_ to bite to rip skin off.” 

 

“Didn’t she have cannibalistic tendencies?” 

 

“I think that was a rumor.” 

 

“I hope that was a rumor.” 

 

“EJ eats people,” Jeff points out. 

 

“EJ gets kidneys from an ethical source,” I counter. “Tristan would probably just tear people she doesn’t like apart.”

 

“The fuck is his ethical source? Graveyards?” 

 

"You really think EJ's gonna go out to a graveyard and take the time to dig through six feet of dirt and cement? He's blind, Jeffrey."

 

Jeff tosses his hands up. “Do you think I would fucking know? He probably has a deal with a body farm or something. Or people who give themselves up for science and shit.” 

 

“ _EJ_ doesn’t have a deal with anybody. He’s blind, can’t read paperwork.” 

 

“Alright, smartass. _Helen_ has a deal _for_ EJ with a body farm.” 

 

I laugh, shuffling closer to him when he pivots himself to lie down next to me. Jeff doesn’t seem to mind when I tuck my head against his shoulder. “You know, EJ’s personality has always confused me. You’d think that after being the subject of a brutal demonic ritual and having his eyes torn out, he’d be a lot more . . . bitter and traumatized.” 

 

Jeff shrugs. “He makes sure all his actions are guided by intuition rather than conscious decision. Says he makes better choices that way.Which sounds counterproductive to me, considering he’s the only one who does it and it doesn’t get him very far. But I like it. I like _him_ , even if he’s kind of an idiot.” 

 

“Even if he’s the reason you got Slender-slapped?” 

 

“Don’t -” Jeff chokes trying not to laugh and fails miserably, “- don’t say that ever again.” 

 

I rub the back of his hand, feeling the rugged scars there. His skin is always cold. I wonder if it’s from me unconsciously sucking the heat out of him or if he’s just a reptile. Now’s the best time to bring up the uncomfortable - when we’re both relatively content, that way when I inevitably ruin the mood it won’t be so detrimental. Here goes absolutely fucking nothing; “So. Are you still high on adrenaline or can we talk about . . . ?” 

 

“Sure.” 

 

 _Oh, that fucker._ “I’m sorry if I . . . acted . . . insensitively. Ah, _impulsively_ \- that’s the word.” 

 

 _Oh, you go, Rowan. Aeron. Whatever the fuck you are - dammit, way to make it awkward._ Fortunately, Jeff’s a man with seemingly nothing to lose. Either that or a fucking _stone_ will or absolutely no sense of self-preservation - whatever it is, it’s fortunate for me, because I’ll be damned if he doesn’t save me from imploding on myself yet again. 

 

“You know, I know you ragged on me for not getting it when the gas station chick was flirting,” he says dryly, “but damn if you aren’t oblivious. I was _clearly_ inviting you to - actually, I won’t finish that sentence.” 

 

“Oh, you will.” 

 

“I will absolutely not.” 

 

I huff. There’s no getting that out of him, though my mind did go in several different directions, all of them much more pleasant than him kicking me in the dick for making a move. “Alright. I may have - Okay.” _This is going so much more . . . awkward than I thought it would._

 

“Did you do this with your high school twink? Or is it just me?” 

 

“ _Alright_. Okay. Fuck off.” I bat his hand away when he tries to poke my nose. “Yes. You’re intimidating, okay? I don’t know what you’re thinking. You kind of have this resting bitch face and it scares me sometimes.” 

 

“I do?” 

 

“Yeah, it’s terrifying. You have - really pretty eyes, too, but they’re too intense sometimes. Like when you make eye contact and it actually looks like you’re trying to set me on fire with - oh, that’s funny. You know? ‘Cause I’m fireproof.” 

 

“Rowan.” Jeff props himself up on an elbow and squints at me through the approaching darkness. “You’ve seen me lose my goddamn mind over a Furby, okay? I’m not in any place to judge you. For the love of God, _please_ just say what you’re trying to say.” 

 

“I don’t love you,” I blurt. 

 

Jeff just stares, achingly quiet. The wind stops, and the birds seem to have gone quiet in the trees. 

 

“I - Let me rephrase that,” I stammer. He’s doing the thing again - that intense gaze, can’t tell if he’s trying to pierce my soul or set me on fire from the inside, can’t tell if it’s deep thought or anger. Disappointment, surely. I’ve disappointed him, haven’t I? “I don’t - I don’t love you. I don’t love anybody. Because I don’t know how to.” 

 

Jeff doesn’t say anything. 

 

“ _But_ ,” I say, looking up at the stars dusted across that infinite blanket of darkness, at the shadows of trees on the mountain, anywhere but Jeff’s gold-speckled blue eyes, anywhere but that fierce intensity, “I think I’m getting there. I think - I care about you. I do. Maybe too much, especially in this situation. I don’t know. Maybe I do love you. But I don’t know what it feels like. But this - whatever I’m feeling, like you’re everything, like - you’re _real_ . In all of this shit, in everything we don’t know, all the secrets and the theories and the monsters, you’re _real_. You’re something I can focus on. You’re here. With me. And I don’t want that to change.

 

“But . . . I don’t know. Whatever you feel for me, whatever we have, whether it’s friendship or something else, I want it to grow. I want you to know that I wouldn’t trade the time we’ve had together for anything.” And after that, I’m quiet. I don’t know what else to say. 

 

Jeff breaks the silence with a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor there. He laughs. But I see the real fear behind his eyes, something that shakes me. I was expecting disappointment. Sadness. Anger. I wasn’t expecting fear. 

 

“You say that like you’re leaving,” he says faintly, the edges of his voice tinted with nervous worry. Fear again, maybe. His hand is tense underneath mine. 

 

“I’m not planning on it.” I try to sound reassuring. But to do that I’d have to at least partially convince myself that this won’t all end in disaster. “So if - if I disappointed you, made you upset, I’m sorry. I do . . . care about you. And I think I could end up loving you. And if - whatever happened back in the arena, that kiss - if you’d like . . . that to continue, then I wouldn’t object. I’d . . . really like it, actually.” 

 

Jeff’s quiet for a while, and all I hear are his shaky breaths slowly calming, as if he’s convincing himself of what I’ve just said. I wonder what he’s thinking. 

 

“Rowan, you’re _terrible_ with words.” 

 

“Yeah. I know. It’s my fatal flaw.” 

 

Jeff’s hand squeezes mine and then slips away. He lifts himself up enough to lean over, using his other hand for support on the other side of me. 

 

His lips are as cold as the rest of him. I tug on his hair until it comes out of the bun and it falls around his face like a waterfall, curling my fingers in those dark curls, feeling the way his breath stutters for a moment and he pulls away when his knees jerk. Good God. 

 

Jeff’s scarred fingers trail down to the hem of my shirt and my heart nearly stops. 

 

The scars. 

 

I grab his wrists above his scars and switch our positions, pressing my knees against his legs so he can’t move. “Absolutely not,” I say roughly. The sun’s set. I can’t see the color of his eyes. “I’m not - not taking my shirt off.” 

 

His eyes twinkle despite the darkness. Not amusement, or even curiosity. Something else. Something . . . knowing. Slightly pained. “Scars?” 

 

“Maybe. Yes.” 

 

That sad look leaves and he laughs breathlessly. “Wait ‘til you see mine, buckaroo. I look like an elementary schoolers’ clay project blown up in the oven.” 

 

“Jeff.” 

 

“Yes?” 

 

I pull on his hair and grin wickedly when his entire body goes rigid. “I’ve seen you without a shirt. Multiple times now, in fact, and I can assure you, you do not look like that. If I hear one more self-deprecating joke, I’m going to -” 

 

“Pull my hair? Do it, coward.” 

 

I lean down and kiss him. He’s still cold. I pool heat into the center of my hands and brush them against his stomach, slipping up underneath his shirt. His skin isn’t soft like his lips or his hair; it feels leathery in some places, the places the fire touched, and softer in others. I feel scars, too uniform to be accidental, traveling up from his hips all the way over his lower stomach. 

 

“Please don’t set me on fire,” he says suddenly.

 

I manage a laugh against his neck, heat flooding through my lips to warm up his. “I’m not going to set you on fire.” 

 

Jeff’s hand find their place on the back of my neck, pulling me closer. He shifts his legs, giving me more room. “Those are gonna be your last words.” 

 

“You faithless traitor.” 

 

He gives me a shit eating grin. “That would be funny, though, if you just fuckin’ -” 

 

I let him cut off with laughter at whatever scenario he’s thinking of and lean over to the jacket I’d discarded when I climbed in the back. I check the outer pockets, then the inside pocket, the one I’d sewed on so I could slip stuff in without anyone noticing. I feel the jagged edges of the condom and hesitate. 

 

Jeff brushes the back of his hand against mine to catch my attention, and when I look back he shifts again, spreads his legs just a few inches, but I understand the invitation. My heart catches in my throat, but it’s not love. Not when I tug on his hair and he moans, or when I map his scars and freckles out with my palms bleeding warmth, or when he chokes out my name and claws at my shoulders. 

 

I find his scarred hands somewhere above his head and hold them there. There’s a feeling there, in my chest, when I explore, when it all comes rushing to me, the realization that he’s _here_ , that I’m touching him, learning every part of him, touching and teasing until he’s gasping and begging in a desperate mix of Spanish and English. He’s warm. And solid. Something real. Something meaningful. 

 

Jeff’s not someone I love. Someone I want, maybe. Somebody I might be able to love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bounce me against a mountain


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i am so, so sorry.

I wake before dawn, blinking away swimming memories of Anaïs and our old house in the forest. 

 

It takes me a moment to process where I am - in the back of the truck, Jeff curled up next to me. Even with my eyes adjusted, I can only see his outline, tucked in close beside me, his curls spilling over my arm like ink. When the sun finally begins to rise lazily over the mountains, the soft light makes his skin look golden. Highlights every freckle and imperfection. Good God, he’s beautiful. 

 

I press my hand against his chest and hold it there for a few moments, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath. He’s warm now. I trail my hand across his chest, over every scar, over the generous dusting of freckles on his shoulders, until my fingertips brush against a small bruise on his neck. He twitches. 

 

One quick jerk. And I could snap his neck. He’d never see it coming. 

 

When the thoughts catch up to me, I snatch my hand away like I’ve been burned. 

 

_ What the fuck? _

 

Jeff stirs and shifts closer. I feel a single pulse of fear when his hand brushes against my leg. My magic perks up in sleepy interest, and I quickly push it back down before I really realize what I just thought. 

 

No. It wasn’t a thought. It didn’t feel like a thought. It was more like a voice, a tugging on the back of my mind. Not like Peggy’s magic, or Slenderman’s odd way of communication. This was different. And my magic didn’t even notice. 

 

I rest my hand back on his chest, running my finger across a jagged scar below his ribs. Jeff’s never gone into much detail about how he got these scars. I can make a guess on the ones further down - the ones in neat little rows that grow more irregular, more rushed as they go up and across. They start to criss-cross themselves, and some look much deeper than others. But they’re old. So are the ones on his wrists. 

 

When the sun is almost above the mountains and the sky is crimson and orange, I lift my hand, watching the veins curl around my wrist into the palm of my hand. They spread out like branches, blooming on the ends, curling around Slenderman’s mark. Drowning it out. Nothing is supposed to do that. 

 

Odd, though. I don’t feel panicked. I don’t feel scared. What stirs in my chest is more of a fascination. Awe, even. 

 

I move my arm to the side, and see a flash of light in Slenderman’s mark, overtaken by those veins like weeds. I hear muffled voices, see flickers of memories in a barren landscape. 

 

_ That _ scares me. 

 

Jeff wakes up with a jerk when I gasp and slam my hand back down against the truck bed. His eyes seem to glow in the sunlight, cutting straight through me even though they’re clouded with sleep. 

 

“Something wrong?” he mumbles against my arm. 

 

_ Should I tell him? _ He’s going to find out eventually. But I don’t want to create even more issues - we already have Peggy, the Family, the breeding operation, the SDSC following Peggy, who’s following us. Margaret Hodek. 

 

“Jeff,” I whisper against his ear, “please don’t get mad.” 

 

“‘Bout what?” He’s hardly awake. Maybe if I show him, he’ll just half-heartedly nod and go right back to sleep, and then he won’t remember the next time he wakes. That sounds like a fantastic plan. 

 

I nudge him until he lifts his head and then I lift my arm against the sunlight so he can see the veins. At first he’s quiet, his face still as he tries taking in all the information at once - yeah, maybe this wasn’t the best time - and then his eyes go wide and he struggles to sit up and gently takes my arm. 

 

I shiver when Jeff’s suddenly-cold fingers trail over the veins, following them all the way to the palm of my hand. He turns my arm over and rubs at Slenderman’s mark. 

 

His frown deepens. “Does that hurt?” 

 

“No, it doesn’t. It’s been . . . like that for a while, I just thought it had something to do with the sword bonding, or the tattoo. Or my magic.” But it’s something else. Because the sword can’t tell me to snap his neck, and neither can my magic. And a tattoo is just a tattoo. Right? 

 

Jeff slowly wraps both of his arms around mine, hugging it close to his chest, and leans against me, resting his head on my shoulder. “It’s too early for that shit.” 

 

It feels better to laugh. Just push it all away, like we always do, and we can fix it later. Or at least try to. “Spoken like a true procrastinator.” 

 

“It’s my only talent,” he mumbles against my shoulder. Jeff rubs circles against Slenderman’s faded mark. “D’you think it has something to do with being away from the mansion for so long?” 

 

“Maybe.” I nervously eye those odd tattoos on my other arm. Have I even  _ heard  _ Slenderman since then? Felt him pulling on me at all? Fuck. I haven’t even thought about that. I haven’t thought about a lot of things that I should have, like the sword, or the books, or  _ Glors Moria _ and the chapter on evocation. “If we have to cut off my arm, I’m going to be upset.” 

 

I gently slip my arm from Jeff’s grasp and hold it up, closing it into a fist and lifting my middle finger to the sun. “Cut it off like that. Stick it to a pike and hit Slenderman in the face with it.” 

 

Jeff laughs. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, if we do find ourselves in the situation.” 

 

I feel a pang of guilt. Should I tell him about the voice? He’s already upset about the veins - he’s trying to hide it, and he’d be doing a good job if his voice wasn’t so shaky and he hadn’t clutched my arm to his chest like he’s truly afraid of losing it. Of losing me. Now  _ that  _ makes me feel like shit. 

 

Perhaps right after I fucked him within an inch of his life isn’t the  _ best  _ time to tell him I thought of breaking his neck. 

 

Jeff eventually unwraps himself from me and stretches, popping what sounds like every bone from his shoulders to his toes. I wince when I see the bruises on the back of his shoulders when he reaches for his shirt. Maybe the back of a truck wasn’t the best setting. 

 

He suddenly stops, and stares out over the cliff. 

 

“What?” I ask. 

 

“I just . . . got the weirdest feeling,” he grumbles. 

 

“I . . . did use a condom, right?” 

 

Jeff gives me a deadpanned look. 

 

“Alright, alright, okay.” I raise my hands in mock surrender. “We’re not being watched, though, are we? My magic would have gone wild if we were.” I lift my hand again, somewhat eager to listen to those incomprehensible whispers, the shifting images of fire and blood and carnage. “My hand’s doing a weird thing. Jeff.”

 

Jeff slides closer and tilts his head. He doesn’t seem to see anything but Slenderman’s odd O crossed out with an X, the flowering veins, how my nails have . . . started turning black. “That’s not normal,” he says worriedly. “Are your fingernails sore at all?” 

 

I squeeze one. It takes a horrifically long time for the color to return. “Damn. Could have waited until I started falling apart . . .” 

 

“If it doesn’t hurt . . .” Jeff trails off, and then cringes. “No, nevermind. This should probably be at the top of our priority list, shouldn’t it? Was it like that before?” 

 

“It started . . .” How long ago was the night at the motel? A few nights, at least. “It started, I think, on the ride to the motel in Las Vegas. I’ve seen things similar on Brian and Tim, so I didn’t think much of it. But now that it’s gotten worse, I . . . It doesn’t look familiar at all anymore.” 

 

Jeff thinks for a moment, watching the veins slowly curl around my fingers, never staying in one moment for very long. “Should we . . . Cut you?” 

 

“Uh, what?” 

 

“When you had that burnout, EJ said something about your blood not being normal,” he explains. “So maybe this is just something about your magic. Maybe you just need some more iron.” Jeff’s trying to convince himself that I’m alright. His voice is shaking. Maybe cutting off my hand  _ is  _ a good idea. 

 

I clench and unclench my fist. The veins spread out in a panicked disarray when I do. Jeff and I exchange a look. 

 

I pool heat into the palm of my hand. The veins scatter. 

 

“Catch yourself on fire,” Jeff says quickly. 

 

I find my pants discarded along with most of Jeff’s clothes in the corner of the bed. I get dressed faster than him and nearly launch myself over the edge of the truck. I find a spot in the center of the little clearing, away from most of the bushes and trees lining the edge of the cliff. Jeff gets out of the truck much slower, walking with a slight limp. 

 

I draw up all my magic, just enough to set every inch of my skin ablaze. I pull the heat away from the barely-molecular space between my clothing and my skin, so fast and brutal that I form an empty pocket so my clothes and hair doesn’t catch on fire as well. In a single burst of light, my skin sets on fire, burns for a few moments, and then I extinguish it. 

 

The veins are gone. 

 

“Holy  _ fuck _ ,” Jeff breathes, eyes wide as quarters. “Did . . . did you fix it?” 

 

The veins slowly come back, spreading out slowly at first, and then quickly fills the space between my elbow and hand. 

 

“Son of a  _ bitch _ !” I catch my arm on fire again, not caring when it singes the edge of my sleeve. The veins retreat, but the moment the fire goes out, they lazily return. Like wolves. “Either I’m gonna have to deal with having a parasitic, moving tattoo or I’m gonna have to constantly be on fire,” I say to Jeff. 

 

“Damn,” he says glumly. 

 

I take a shaky breath, steadying the slowly-growing fear in my chest. “Okay. It’s fine, it doesn’t hurt. Let’s just . . . get to Margaret’s house. We can work on burning this shit off there.” 

 

**Can’t be burned.**

 

Jeff’s suddenly  _ there _ , in front of me, and though I know he didn’t, it seems like he just teleported. Everything slows down. Did he just talk, or was I imagining things? My eyes slide down to his slim neck, peppered with barely-noticeable bruises. They’ll be gone within the next hour or so. His hair almost hides the small area on his neck where the skin is leathery, a few shades lighter than the rest, burned years ago and since healed. 

 

It really would be easy to just reach out. Wrap my fingers around his warm skin, watch those honey-gold specks in his eyes fade. Feel him go cold. 

 

“. . . owan?” 

 

I jerk, and for a moment everything swims. 

 

**Can’t burn us away.**

 

“Rowan, are you alright?” Jeff’s warm voice brings me back. I feel the headache, somewhere beneath the blanket of numbness. 

 

I wipe the ash from my face. “Yeah, I’m . . . I’m okay. I don’t know what happened. Guess I used too much magic at once.” 

 

“Be careful,” he says gently. “Don’t want you having a burnout.” 

 

I nod. My throat feels tight. I don’t trust my voice. 

 

Jeff wouldn’t let me. He’d see it coming the second my muscles would twitch. I forget sometimes that he was trained to kill. And Jeff could kill me in an instant, in a dozen different ways, if he really wanted to. I let that thought ease my worries. I can’t hurt Jeff - he wouldn’t allow it. 

 

He’d have me pinned underneath him with a knife to my throat in a matter of seconds. 

 

“So,” I say, trying to break the painful silence, “when we get back, what’s this?” 

 

“ _ This _ ?” 

 

“Us,” I reiterate.  

 

“Well, what do you want?” he asks. “I’m pretty certain Kagekao had a bet going with LJ.” Yeah, now the  _ I give it a week _ thing makes sense. I’d forgotten about that. “Though I’m pretty certain it’s been almost a month since we left, so he’s not getting that fifty.” 

 

I laugh. It breaks away the rest of the icy fear. “Pretty certain last night was worth more than fifty, but I’ll let it pass since LJ is so near and dear to me.” 

 

“Purely professional? Until LJ goes insane?” 

 

“Purely professional,” I agree, my hand firmly on his ass.    
  


* * *

 

It takes Jeff a good twenty minutes to find a way to sit down comfortably. I thoroughly enjoy watching him struggle. “You know,” I say, when he scowls at me through the window, “I think I have some Ibuprofen.” 

 

“Shut up, you arrogant -” the rest is something in Spanish that’s definitely an insult. It gets him kissed, and that seems to be enough to shut him up for a good twenty minutes while I make sure nothing’s going to fly out of the back of the truck. 

 

I hop in and slam the door shut. The headache is gone, but it’ll probably be back just like the veins. I don’t hear the voice anymore, or that odd tugging, but I still make sure Jeff knows where the emergency brake is in case I go momentarily catatonic again. 

 

I’d have him drive, but he can still barely feel his legs. 

 

While Jeff alternates between playing his ukulele, drawing, adding notes to his  _ Operation Holy Fuck We’re Fucked _ pages, and generally being a nuisance, I try internally mapping out where we’re going: Straight on the highway, there’s a small town about two hundred miles from where we parked last night. Margaret’s house is another two hundred miles from the town, on a large piece of open land next to a massive stretch of forest. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find. 

 

I can tell Jeff’s getting nervous. He has me stop the truck a few times so he can stand on the side of the road, trying not to throw up. 

 

The headache does return, but it stays relatively bearable. Jeff eventually stops trying to distract himself and just sits there, hands digging into his legs, staring straight out the window. I wish I could say something. The fact that Peggy might be following us makes him a nervous wreck, too, but I don’t know what to say about that either. 

 

If Peggy’s following us, if she intercepts before we get to Margaret’s house and decides she’s not on our side . . . I don’t think I’m in any shape to fight her. Not with knowing that she has a natural advantage over me, or that she’s so powerful she could rip apart the atmosphere if she really wanted to. If the headache decided to flare up, I’d be out of the fight before it even began. 

 

**Know what you have failed to be.**

 

The steering wheel jerks. Not enough for Jeff to notice, but enough that my heart jumps into my throat and I jerk it again trying to straighten the truck before we run off the road. I try to ignore it. But that deep, monotone voice just gets louder, until it sounds like it’s coming from every direction at once. 

 

**Struggle. It matters not.**

 

That voice. Deep. It seems to rumble through my head. It’s not like Slenderman’s voice, quiet and yet still authoritative. It’s . . . Different. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s oddly familiar. It reminds me of Anaïs pulling me into the bathroom, locking all the doors and windows, speaking only in hushed, panicked whispers. 

 

_ Find her. Twelve and then ten. Blue hat. _ The note. I wrote it at the motel, backwards, after I’d walked around outside. After the first headache. 

 

  1. Hollow Street. Anaïs’s blue hat. 



 

It was our address. 

 

**Can’t hide from us.**

 

She tried. Anaïs tried for  _ years  _ to stay away from it, didn’t she? Moved from France, broke off communication with her family, married some man she barely knew for protection. And then Samuel died in the car accident. Anaïs slowly lost her mind. Danced on the porch, put herbs and blood around our front door, sat in a chair by my window every night until I was old enough to pull a trigger. It never occurred to me that she was trying to protect me. 

 

“I have to pull over,” I gasp, breaking away from the thoughts so violently that I almost puke. 

 

Jeff keeps his hand on the back of my neck, even when I run to the bushes and throw up. I don’t notice him leave and come back with a bottle of water. He’s talking, but I can’t make out his words. I feel like I’m underwater. Just lifting the bottle saps my remaining energy. 

 

His voice comes into focus with a ringing. “Sit down. No, don’t - Sit down, Rowan.” 

 

Jeff’s gentle. I think about how easily he’s killed, how it seemed like breath to him to rip the life out of those men at the motel. How he can snap a neck in a second or crush a skull. Those same hands, scarred and calloused and capable of so much death, are soft and easy against my skin as he checks my pulse, my forehead, presses against the veins to see if it hurts. 

 

“Are you dehydrated?” He’s asking so many questions I can’t keep up. Things about my magic, my headache, the veins, the mark. Everything seems to blur together, and it’s a lost cause making out individual words, so I just close my eyes and press against his chest, feeling his voice rather than hearing. 

 

He pours water on me and I immediately snap out of it. 

 

“There we go,” Jeff says. He’s trying to sound casual, but he can’t disguise the fear in his voice, or how badly his hands are shaking. “I think you’re dehydrated.” 

 

I swallow a few times and blink. I’m sitting in his lap, my arms wrapped tightly around him. He’s running his fingers through my hair. I feel weak. Shaky. “I’m . . . I’m going to have a burnout,” I say, coughing when my throat burns. “If I use any magic.” I’m low on iron. Dangerously so. I push my magic back before it can start burning through me. 

 

Jeff helps me to my feet.

 

“Portmore,” I gasp. “It’s close by the town your mother lives in. I need iron.” 

 

“Can you tell me where to go?” 

 

“Just - follow the road, there should - should be a sign.” 

 

It’s off track. Way off track. Portmore is about thirty miles from where we need to be heading - it’ll put us a few hours behind schedule. It hurts knowing we’re traveling away from Margaret. I wonder if it hurts Jeff. 

 

He knows it’s in the opposite direction. He doesn’t seem to care. The road is relatively straight, relatively empty, so he floors it. Doesn’t spare me a single glance. 

 

“I’m sorry,” I say. 

 

“You’re more important to me,” Jeff says. He’s gripping the steering wheel so hard I can see the bones of his knuckles. 

 

“I think . . . not getting pulled over should be pretty important.” 

 

That gets me a smile. Thank God. 

 

“You know what would be interesting?” I say weakly, leaning my head against the window, watching the scenery roar past us. He’s got to be going close to a hundred miles an hour. “If Peggy decided to show up right about now.” 

 

“Don’t jinx it.” 

 

“She could help us.” 

 

“I’d put it at a 50-50, and we’re both terrible at winning bets,” Jeff says. 

 

My stomach turns and I swallow the bile in my throat. “Jeff, we’ve gotta stop. I’m going to throw up again.” 

 

“We have trash bags. Throw up in those. We’ve got to get you to Portmore -” 

 

“Jeff, please.” 

 

He stops on the side of the road and I throw up the second I wrench the door open. There’s blood mixed in with everything else - not gritty, though, so I don’t let myself worry too much. Jeff’s right. We need to get to Portmore before I collapse and my magic takes over. If I get a burnout now, I’m going to die. 

 

Die and leave Jeff all alone here. 

 

The thought makes me sick. 

 

Jeff rubs my back as I cough and spit until the taste of blood and bile is out of my mouth. It’s a struggle not to down the entire water bottle in one go. Small sips as Jeff flies to Portmore. I see signs eventually.  _ Portmore: 10 miles. Portmore: 5 miles. _ And then I see buildings. 

 

And white vans. 

 

“Slow down,” I say. Jeff’s already pressing on the brake, trying not to jerk the truck. We can’t look suspicious. I force my magic down as it stirs again, interested at the sudden spike of raw fear as I see the logo of the SDSC. 

 

They’ve already seen us coming. They’re set up on the side of the road, sort of like a small camp. Waiting. Not for us. For Peggy. Which means Peggy hasn’t come by this way yet. 

 

Which means she’s somewhere behind us. She  _ is  _ following us. 

 

Jeff seems to reconsider something. Maybe he’s thinking what I’m thinking - doesn’t want to get caught between the inevitable fight between Peggy Steinberg and the SDSC. He lets off the brake and presses the gas to the floor. The wheels screech on the road and we’re off again, straight towards Portmore. 

 

An SDSC van is following us. Heavily armored. Massive machine gun on top. 

 

“Jeff,” I wheeze, feeling the veins crawling up my neck, “we’re going to hit someone if you don’t slow down.” 

 

He’s crying. 

 

“Jeff,  _ please _ .” 

 

Jeff brakes hard. I slam my foot against the floor and grab the door so I don’t hit the dash. He does a maneuver with the steering wheel and gearshift, and then the truck whips around, facing the van. I hear police sirens. And magic bubbling at the surface. 

 

**Let us go.**

 

Jeff can’t fight them on his own. He can’t fight police officers on his own. 

 

“Get out slowly,” he’s saying to me. My eyes are locked on the gun. 

 

**Let us out, Rowan.**

 

No. 

 

**We are part of you, Rowan.**

 

No, you aren’t. 

 

**Anaïs isn’t here to stop us, Rowan.**

 

Stop calling me that. 

 

**It is what you are, is it not?**

 

Jeff catches me so I don’t fall. I can’t feel my legs, my arms. Even the headache is gone. It’s all replaced with a soft humming. Sounds like one of Anaïs’s songs, like the trees, the breeze, the drumming in my head when I learned Samuel died. A silence. I feel the magic swell. 

 

**Are you not Rowan Adair Lefèvre?**

 

He’s - what the hell is he doing? Jeff’s talking to them, his voice sounding panicked, but I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. Something about getting me to a hospital. We’re in trouble. He’s in pain. He’s going to die. The soldiers aren’t putting their guns down. 

 

“Jeff, stop,” I mumble. We should get back in the truck. Leave. They’re going to kill us. 

 

**You will submit.**

 

I will not. 

 

**We are chaos. We are deception. We are madness.**

 

Jeff’s voice gets higher. He’s truly terrified. It’s something I’ve never seen in him before. Something I never want to see again. If I even get the chance. 

 

**We are Zalgo.**

 

I hear a gunshot. 

 

The bullet hits him right between the eyes. 

  
  


* * *

 

_ I enjoy this area. It’s still quiet, still early morning, the sun just beginning to bleed the clouds red and gold. I look over the lake, calm and smooth as glass, reflecting the trees of the forest across them.  _

 

_ “You’re going back, aren’t you?” Eli steps up beside me. “To your mom’s house.”  _

 

_ I look down, at my reflection. Brown hair, always sticking up in odd angles. Dark eyes, easily mistaken as being monolid, downturned and sad. Eli says he loves them. They remind me of Sam. I hate them. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”  _

 

_ “I’ve seen the looks you make when I mention her. I think it  _ is  _ a bad thing, Rowan.” Eli wraps an arm around my waist, his hand falling comfortably into the dip of my back. “And I’ve heard you talk about it, you know, you can’t hide everything. The dancing, how dark it is - you say it’s like a prison. Why do you want to go back?”  _

 

_ Anaïs’s songs, her voice, the smell of herbal tea in the hush early morning. I do miss it. I miss her, despite what I say. I won’t tell Eli. Not yet. “I love her.”  _

 

_ “It’s going to be boring without you around. Are you sure you have to go?”  _

 

_ “Don't say that.” My eyes water, my vision going blurry. My throat feels tight as a clenched fist. “You’re going to end up making me change my mind, and then I won’t get through this.” Eli doesn’t know what ‘this’ is. He never will. No one can understand the odd relationship between me and Anaïs. But that’s alright, because Eli doesn’t ask. He never does.  _

 

_ “Well, we can’t have that.” He rubs my back. “Margo will kill me.”  _

 

_ At that, I smile. “You’re still calling her that? She’s going to kick your ass.”  _

 

_ “She’d rather me call her after a toad than an alcoholic beverage.”  _

 

_ “Her own words?”  _

 

_ Eli tries to hide his wince, but it gives everything away. He’s a terrible liar. He’s lucky he’s handsome. “Of course. Margo’s gonna miss you too. And Margarita,” he adds quickly.  _

 

_ “You see, when you say Margo, I never know if you’re talking about the toad or the grumpy woman.”  _

 

_ “Is there really a difference?”  _

 

_ I laugh again. It’s easy to, despite the situation, around Eli. Everything’s easier around Eli. Even lying. Even saying that I love him. I think that hurts more than anything. More than having to leave him again.  _

 

_ He kisses me. It’s not one of Eli’s kisses. It’s something sadder.  _

 

_ That hurts, too.  _

 

* * *

 

Something streaks across the sky in slow motion. I don’t know if it’s the fire or the blood. 

 

But it smells like smoke. And burning hair. Sizzling flesh. I hear the gravel crunch when Jeff hits the ground. I hear screaming - I don’t know if it’s from the people of the town or me. Surprisingly, Zalgo isn’t laughing. 

 

He sounds sad. 

 

**Just this once.**

 

I consider, just for a moment, saying no. Saying  _ fuck you _ to everything; to Slenderman for sending LJ and Sadie to find me, to Tristan for sending us on this fucking mission, to the voice in my head calling itself Zalgo. Blowing up one last time and destroying everything in my path. That’d feel nice, in the time I’d get to enjoy it. But Jeff deserves better than to be reduced to a pile of ash, forgotten beneath the ruins of a small town in Arizona. 

 

The veins reach my face, branch out of my eyes. I can feel it now. Magic, humming beneath my skin. Flickers of a forgotten time, a forgotten people, forgotten memories. Their names are whispered from the scattered remnants of their souls. Death and chaos. 

 

I hand it all over. The magic. The knowledge. Every memory, every emotion. I wonder how many times this has been done. How many memories Zalgo’s kept in their realm of madness. 

 

I can’t even remember my name. The name of the woman with thin hair and a beautiful singing voice. The name of the man who could play the ukulele, with intense blue-gold eyes and scars all over his body.  

 

I forget it all, and retreat to the darkest parts of my mind. 


	30. Chapter 30 - End of Act I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jeff is surprisingly fine. Rowan? Not so much.

I’m not certain when the explosion happens, or how I get to the outskirts of Portmore. 

 

There’s a tingling between my eyes. It’s the first thing I focus on. The next is the smell - it’s putrid. Like burning flesh and hair. I realize it comes from the town. 

 

One giant column of pitch black smoke. 

 

_ Rowan. _

 

I scramble to my feet, horrified at the scene below me. Blue fire. Rowan’s fire. Not just fire, but explosions, and a different kind of black smoke. Screaming. Sirens. Buildings collapsing, gunfire. I don’t move. I can’t move. Something keeps me rooted right where I am, tells me that if I go down there, I’m going to die. I can see SDSC vans, moving quickly amongst the smoke and not coming out the other side. I can see the truck, in the center of a ring of fire. 

 

That’s what gets me moving. 

 

I run down the hill, the wind and my heart pounding in my ears.  _ Get to the truck. Just get to the truck. _ Whatever’s happened, whatever set him off, is dangerous. And still down there. 

 

Images flash before me. Husks of bodies littering the burning streets, windows shattered, whole buildings toppled. The truck is in the epicenter, surrounded by charred and bloodstained dirt, strangely untouched by the fire. My throat tightens. 

 

It’s Abernathy all over again. 

 

I run up a car, burned from the inside out and untouched on the exterior, and jump. My shoulder pops when I hit the ground on the other side of the wall of fire, but I ignore the pain. I struggle to wrench the door open - it’s melted shut. 

 

A massive shadow comes over the clearing. I look up and see him. 

 

It’s not Rowan. Rowan wouldn’t laugh. Rowan doesn’t sound like a demon. He’s surrounded in smoke. It seems to peel from him, surrounds the area, chokes out whoever is still alive. And people are still alive, miraculously. They’re running from him. 

 

There’s nothing here. Just Rowan. 

 

Suddenly, everything Slenderman had done makes sense. Locking him away, making sure he doesn’t succumb to corruption - he never went into detail, and I’m glad he didn’t. Covering up Abernathy. Because how the hell is the world going to cope with  _ this _ ? 

 

It hurts. 

 

It hurts so much. 

 

I slam my elbow into the glass and it shatters, pieces flying and cutting across any exposed skin. My arm goes numb for a moment. I jump in boots-first and grab everything I can, everything that seems useful; the gym bag - I don’t know if it’s mine or Rowan’s. My book bag, my ukulele. A gun. A map. And then I feel the precursory surge of magical energy and quickly duck beneath the dash. 

 

I don’t grab the laptop in time. It crashes through the windshield when the truck is hit with the surge. It flies, and I brace my knees against the softest part of the seat, but it’s not enough. My hip pops right out of place from the force of the impact and I bite through my lip trying not to scream. 

 

The truck only flips twice. Or maybe it’s three times - I can’t really tell. It slides for a while. I don’t know if it’s spinning or not, but it hits something. A building that comes crashing down on the bed, missing me by a few feet. It cuts it right in half. 

 

I can’t get myself out. I can feel the heat from the fire. I smell the gasoline. It’s going to explode. My leg feels like it’s on fire, but I push it back for now. I’ll mess it up running, but I’d rather be crippled than burned to a crisp. 

 

I wait until he’s looking away. I don’t know if it’s Rowan anymore, but it’s dangerous. 

 

It’s pure agony pulling myself out of the truck. It’s upside down. I have to crawl across the seats to the side where the window is busted out - the windshield is too jagged for me not to cut myself, and the glass is beginning to melt. 

 

When I make it out of the truck, I quickly take in my surroundings. I see the laptop on the ground across the street - not smashed to bits, amazingly. But getting the fuck out of this town is more important. 

 

I run. It hurts. Everything hurts. But I push it back and throw a blanket over it. Right now isn’t the time. 

 

Rowan is across the town, wreaking havoc. 

 

I have to try. 

 

I skid to a halt and turn around, running straight towards him, ignoring the amount of bodies that I pass. Some were killed in the blast, the skin and muscle ripped right off their bones in a second. Others are currently dying, moaning and crying in the streets. I ignore them. They’ll be back to haunt me. But that is an issue for later. 

 

“ _ Rowan _ !” I scream. My throat burns. My lungs feel like they’re going to collapse. Maybe they have, and that’s why I can hardly breathe. Maybe it’s the amount of smoke in the air. Maybe it’s both. 

 

Rowan turns. His eyes aren’t golden anymore. 

 

“Rowan, stop,” I plead, stumbling into the clearing he’s made. “I’m right here. I’m alright.” 

 

**We are not Rowan.**

 

The voice comes from everywhere. Rowan’s mouth doesn’t move when he - when  _ it  _ \- speaks. 

 

The thing wearing Rowan’s skin takes a step forward. I press the gun against my head. “Where is Rowan?” I demand, struggling to keep my voice from betraying my fear. “I want to talk to him.” 

 

**There is no such thing as Rowan now.**

 

I don’t bother blinking away the tears. I let them fall. “Then what are you?” 

 

**We are Zalgo.**

 

It draws out the name, makes sure I hear and feel every syllable. 

 

I move the gun away from my head, straight towards Rowan’s face. I pull the trigger. He doesn’t move. He flickers. In between reality, like a bad film. One moment he’s there, inches from my bullet, and the next he’s a few feet away. In the space he leaves in the atmosphere, I see what Rowan saw in his hand. An arid landscape, bathed in a sickly green light, bones sticking from the ground and in piles as high as mountains. Lost memories. Rowan’s memories. Only they aren’t his anymore. They’re Zalgo’s. 

 

It’s right. Rowan’s gone. 

 

For some sick reason, it brings me a moment of comfort. Numbs everything I feel. I run. 

 

_ He’s not gone _ . Elijah said something once - that you can’t take away memories. It was during a training session with Cedar, when both of us were barely teenagers. It was really just preparing us for any future torture sessions with the SDSC or the Family in case we fucked up a mission and got caught. That no matter what limbs they hack or burn off, we’d always have memories. That no amount of medicine or psychological torture could make us forget who we were. What our mission was. 

 

Cedar laughed, and said, ‘ _ Well what about Alzheimer’s? _ ’ That got us both running a mile as punishment. 

 

He was wrong, and I knew he was wrong. People are like books. Tear whole pages, whole chapters out. Find the right page and you know everything about them. Remove some sentences, write some things down in the margins, and you have an entirely new person. 

 

But I would like to think he was right. Because that statement is the only thing that can save Rowan. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

The sun’s going down when I stop. 

 

I can’t see the smoke of Portmore. I avoided Redfeld. Went straight to the forest. There are no sirens. I don’t think anyone survived Zalgo’s attack long enough to call the police. Unless there are no police left. But someone will drive by and see the town leveled out. I wonder how quickly it will be covered up by the SDSC. 

 

It’s been several hours. I can’t feel my body, but I don’t know if that’s from how unsettlingly well I’ve managed to push everything under that blanket or if it’s from the adrenaline. I’d push the rest of me under there as well, but I have to keep going. I have to at least finish this trip. It would be for Rowan. But he’s not here anymore. So I push him firmly away, I push away every laugh, every kiss, every time he set my blood on fire. And I put myself in front. 

 

This is for me. Not for someone I cared about. 

 

I can get there, and then I can . . . Die of my injuries, shoot myself, retreat under that blanket and live like a robot. Fuck everything else. 

 

Cedar would be disappointed. So would Elijah. But Cedar - that man had nothing, and he trudged through life savagely and out of pure spite and rage, cutting down anything that dared try to stop him. Elijah had absolutely everything to lose - an organization built over generations, a wife, a daughter - and that raw fear and desperation kept him fighting like a feral dog. 

 

I had one thing to lose. And I lost it. 

 

Maybe if I’d said no when Slenderman himself showed up, LJ along with him so I wasn’t too scared out of my mind. Though at that point, I’d been beaten to a pulp, been dragged along a road, watched people burn to death, watched torture session after bloody torture session. Nothing could have scared me. Yet Slenderman still managed to do it. And that’s why I said yes. Not because I was starving to death, not because I was sick, but because the faceless motherfucker scared me. 

 

Cedar told me I was a fucking moron. I got angry. He got angry. We screamed at each other like a couple of idiots and I left without saying goodbye. Now I see exactly what he meant. 

 

The house is . . . It’s bigger than I thought, for someone who lives alone. There’s a lake. A barn. Cows and sheep. Chickens that run over to me, clucking and pecking curiously at my feet. There’s a rabbit. Two rabbits. Three. 

 

The screen door opens before my foot even touches the first step to the porch. 

 

She’s the same, if a bit older, more washed-out and heavy. Long hair, dark and thin, wavy around the bottom. Blue eyes. A soft jawline. Freckles dusted across her face like stars. She stares, and I stare back, hardly aware that there’s blood dripping between my fingers where I clutch my side. 

 

Her blue eyes widen, her lips form a perfect  _ O _ . My ribs ache. 

 

“My boy,” she breathes. 

 

And what else am I supposed to say to that? I take the first step and stumble, everything rushing to me, the pain and the grief and the raw, desperate anger. She swims and then goes blurry. I can’t stop the tears or the sobs. I just have to get up - get to the porch, don’t fall or pass out, now - 

 

“ _ Mom _ ,” I croak, and then the world swirls one last time and goes dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry. It's not the end.


	31. Chapter 31

**October.**

  
  
  


**3 months after the destruction of Portmore.**

  
  
  


I’m not one for sensible hours. I probably - cross that out, definitely - should start going to bed when Margaret does, because she has the common sense to tuck herself in at 9:30. But I like staying up at all hours of the night when she can’t see me break down. And besides, I prefer wearing Jeffrey Hodek From 4 Months Ago, instead of Jeffrey Hodek Now, who’s nothing but a shell of a man. 

 

Wash the dishes, feed the chickens, teach Margaret how to throw a knife, lock that guilt away when you see the pain in her soft eyes, when she clings onto you and sobs and tells you that Peter Hodek shot himself in the mouth five years ago because he couldn’t stand losing both his boys. Hang the clothes up on the line, walk around the forest trying to find something interesting, break down and sob for hours when Margaret tells you she left a room empty for you. 

 

She took me to see Peter and Liu’s graves, right next to each other in a secluded part of the graveyard. Underneath an oak at the base of a small hill. It rained the day we went. Finally washed away the stench of the remains of Portmore. I sat at Liu’s grave for hours, even when Margaret kissed my forehead and left. She didn’t seem upset when I returned at 11, soaked from head to toe, dripping all over the floor. 

 

I never thought talking to my mother would be like talking to an absolute stranger. So much has happened since the fire. She went back to school, got her degree in clinical psychology, but never really found a job. Margaret worked with children for a while, but after a few years of that she couldn’t do it anymore. She bought a house with an extra bedroom and turned into an almost-but-not-quite hermit. The neighbors come over every once in a while - an old couple, Darren and Gwendolyn McCutchen. They were shocked to see me in the front yard messing around with the chickens, battered beyond belief, my injured leg stuck in a brace Margaret had almost lost a finger trying to put together. 

 

After meeting me, content with some shitty lie about how I’m just an old family friend living with Margaret while I try to heal from an accident, Darren and Gwen make a point of coming over more often, usually with food. I start going by Camilo, mostly because I’m tired of Margaret calling me _Heffrey_ to get me to laugh. It works. A few times. Then I start calling her vieja and she throws a wooden spoon at me. 

 

I’d like for it to be warm. And I want to be happy. But there’s nothing there anymore but an odd, pulling emptiness. I’ve retreated to some dark part of my mind and let the remnants of myself take over. I make a point of never thinking about him, or his white hair and gold eyes. I make a point of refusing to find a way to communicate with Tristan and tell her I’m alright. I’d rather them all think I’m dead. For all I know, I am. I certainly don’t feel alive. 

 

Margaret notices. But she doesn’t ask questions - she knows about the destruction of Portmore. She asks me why there isn’t much coverage on the news. I tell her  _ no sé. _ She knows I’m lying, because she’s a mother and mothers can see right through that kind of bullshit, but she doesn’t press. I think it’s because she stays up later than she lets on and hears me breaking down at night when it’s quiet and I have too much time to think and those old memories come back. 

 

I make myself busy as soon as I can so that my mind doesn’t have time to wander back to him. It’s better to pretend it never happened. I never met him, never fell for him, never opened up to him. He never existed. I read all of Margaret’s books on farming or harvesting wild herbs and mushrooms. I make a trail in the forest and start building little houses out of sticks and moss when I truly don’t have anything else productive to do. She tells me she never named the chickens, so I do. We split them up. I get three, she gets three. I name mine Chicken Nugget, Helen the Felon (she’s attacked me five times), and Karen From The Bakesale. Margaret names hers Petra, Wanker, and Dwayne “The Cock” Johnson (and she insists on referring to him by his full title every time). 

 

The rabbits are named. Lily, Clover, and Tulip. Margaret got them from the neighbors’ granddaughter who couldn’t take care of them anymore. Her name is Mary. She comes over once, and can hardly look at me. I can’t tell if it’s my scars or the haunted look Margaret says I have. 

 

“Like a soldier,” she says one day. “There’s something raw in your eyes. Like a wound that’s never healed.” And then she goes on a tangent about how time heals all wounds, and I should take my time getting better. 

 

She’s partially right. Time heals most wounds. The rest are tucked quietly away in the back of my mind where I’ll never have to bother with them again. 

 

One thing that surprises me is that she never really questions things. If I abruptly break down and cry in the middle of doing something, she doesn’t question it, she just kneels on the ground beside of me and hugs me. If I start having flashbacks of the heat or the smell of seared flesh at Portmore and drop a cup and shatter it, she doesn’t get upset, no matter how expensive or beautiful the pottery was. But I still feel bad. She doesn’t ask much about what happened before Portmore, either. I tell her I was taken in by an organization who lied and told me she was dead, and that I was so broken that I didn’t bother questioning it. She accepts that. 

 

Three weeks pass and I still don’t feel like I know her at all. Every day she says or does something that surprises me, like when she finally asks about my scars, or starts singing to Shakira in the kitchen and invites me to dance with her (which is awkward, since I’m half a foot taller than her and mostly leg), or when she has Darren, Gwen, and Mary over for our own little Thanksgiving. Mary’s parents tag along as well; Candy and Harold, two lovely people, and her younger brother Michael. They’re all Catholic, including Margaret, but they don’t seem to mind when I quietly request not to pray. 

 

Candy and Harold don’t like me at first, I can tell by the odd looks they give me. There something else there, too, like realization, when I sit next to Margaret and they see how similar we look. But they know not to say anything. And I think Darren and Gwen have realized it, too, but they keep quiet as well. 

 

Michael, young and curious and without a brain-to-mouth filter, asks about my scars. Margaret tenses, Candy and Harold glare at him, Darren and Gwen prepare for me to break down. They’ve seen it once before. Mary leans in, trying to gauge my expression, not quite meeting my gaze. 

 

Someone once told me it’s intense, like I’m trying to pierce through to your soul, that it’s always hard to tell what I’m thinking. 

 

“This one,” I say, pointing to the jagged scar from my eye to my jaw, “is where I got hit by someone. Mouthed off - Don’t ever make the same mistake,” I add to Michael and Mary. The tension in the room dissipates. Margaret listens, too, because it’s the first time I’ve opened up about them. I’d rather talk about my scars than think about who once said my eyes are intense. I point to the scars on my mouth. “This was my doing. I lost someone very special to me, and I didn’t know how to cope.” Margaret’s eyes redden at that. She knows. And I feel horrible. 

 

I drag my finger from my collarbone to my ear and the patch of lighter skin barely touching the side of my eye. “This was from a fire. I was lucky it wasn’t very bad, otherwise I’d look like a lump of Play-Doh.” Michael and Mary both grin. I try to return a smile, but I think I look more sad, because the adults in the room give me a sympathetic look that I wish they wouldn’t have. I hold up my hands. “These are from a fire, too.” 

 

“What about the ones on your wrist?” Michael asks. The tension is back. I hear Margaret’s sharp inhale, and it makes my stomach churn. I know she’s seen them - she’s seen more of me in the past months than I’d like her to, especially considering when I first showed up on her door I was out of it for a good couple of days and couldn’t walk. I’ve never told her about them, though. 

 

“I did those ones too,” I say quietly, tugging my sleeve down. I remember someone rubbing them. Pressing a warm hand against them. Too warm to be natural, almost as if by - 

 

I don’t have time to stop the tears. It doesn’t bother me that these people I don’t know sees. It’s better they think it’s the scars that makes me cry and excuse myself from the room. It’s better they don’t know anything about anybody I used to know. 

 

I feel bad again, because Margaret’s left to entertain them all without me while I fall apart. Because Margaret comes in once they leave and cries with me. Because even though I’ve shared the rawest parts of myself with her now, I still don’t know her. I don’t know my mother, and she doesn’t know me. We’re strangers to each other. 

 

But she was right. Somewhat. Time does heal most wounds - I can talk about my jobs with the Flatwoods and the rest of my scars by the time the McCutchen’s begin decorating their front yard for Halloween, which strikes me as a bit odd. I wouldn’t expect the devout Catholics to celebrate Halloween. Margaret tells me they don’t. But they give candy to kids, and they know the kids who come down here love it when they go all out. I find it odd. Sweet, but odd. 

 

I suggest painting the chickens like ghosts. Margaret gives me a stern look. 

 

With Margaret forcing me to eat and bathe regularly (I’d completely fall apart if it weren’t for her), my hair resumes its bullshit of growing way too fast. It’s way past my shoulders by the beginning of October, so one night I grab a pair of scissors, stick my head under some running water, and start cutting. 

 

A horrible idea. 

 

It’s jagged, which wouldn’t normally bother me, but I tried fixing what used to be relatively OK bangs and instead created a crooked monstrosity. And then it started drying and returned to the normal odd curls, and I just stared at myself in the mirror until I busted out laughing. 

 

It scared Margaret, because she hadn’t heard me really laugh. She ran into the bathroom, saw me in hysterics, my horrendous haircut, and started laughing too. We probably sat there on the floor losing our minds for a good twenty minutes. 

 

She manages to salvage most of it. My bangs are returned to their normal state, slightly uneven and only going to around my chin, but there’s a strand that’s no longer than my nose and sticks straight up in an odd curl. I just put everything in a bun and call it a day. 

 

It gets easier, as time goes on. To forget. Hours blur into days, and I busy myself with rebuilding the old garden in the back, reading, rearranging books in Margaret’s small library-esque corner of the living room. I’ve read them all in no time, though I don’t remember even half of them. She teaches me some recipes and I teach her to play the ukulele. I immediately begin changing the recipes, adding my own measurements and probably too many spices, and Margaret starts creating her own songs. I gather enough courage to approach the biggest bull in the field, Henry. Helen the Felon finally lets me hold her without trying to pluck my eyes out. The rabbits start following me around the garden. Margaret feels bad, like she’s keeping me away from the world. I haven’t left the little area, her farm and the McCutchen estate. But I don’t mind. This place is my world now, and I’m content with that. 

 

I finally gather the strength to go through the gym bag. It’s his. There are his clothes, smelling of ash and the remnants of memories I no longer care to recall. Books from the library, a place I can’t remember the smell of - old books, maybe cinnamon? We had adventures. To a tiny, wheat-scented village in France. To Las Vegas. To an old aquarium where we named animals together. 

 

His killer whale is still there. Leo. 

 

I hug him close to my chest and sit there on the bed for a while, staring at the ground. I don’t cry. I don’t think I have the energy to anymore. 

 

* * *

 

 

Margaret is making something in the kitchen. It smells wonderful - cinnamon, apples, and brown sugar. It’s a miracle getting me to eat, she says, and I guess she has a point. I’ve lost weight. I don’t hardly recognize myself in the mirror anymore. So I just avoid the mirror altogether. 

 

I float into the kitchen like a ghost, peering over her shoulder at the mess of a pie on the counter. 

 

“They’ve never been my strong suit,” she mutters, flicking some dough off her fingers. It splats against the wall. 

 

I carefully poke the dough. Calling it dough is an act of mercy. “Add more flour.” 

 

“I’ve tried,” she says miserably. She flicks her fingers again, desperately trying to get the dough to unstick. “I think I might have to ask Gwen to help. So much for my pride.” 

 

“You never had any to begin with.” 

 

Margaret sticks her tongue out. “Go feed the chickens. I am sure they miss you.” 

 

“I already fed the chickens. Helen nearly took my finger off again.” 

 

I can Margaret’s waiting. I’m not certain what it is exactly she’s waiting for - is it for me to open up and tell her about Portmore? About why I clutched his clothes and cried, washed them by hand until my shoulders burned and my fingers bled, just to remove the smell of  _ him _ , the smell of ash. I think she knows. I can tell it pains her, because she wants to be able to help. She went to school for this, after all. Helping people with PTSD, with survivors’ guilt, who has seen things that’s fucked them up beyond saving. I don’t have the heart to tell her to give up. Because there was nobody. The man those clothes belonged to never existed to me. And that’s how I want it to be. 

 

But I do read the very last book in her library. A book on managing grief. 

 

I don’t finish it. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

I dust the entire living room one Sunday before she returns from church. I don’t like being alone on Sundays. By then I’ve completed all the chores for the week and there’s not much else to do but wander the forest and try not to think too hard. 

 

Margaret’s pleasantly surprised to see the living room clean and me not falling to pieces when she comes back. I’ve only recently started letting her kissing my forehead like she used to. I have to bend over and she stands on her toes as she greets me. 

 

“The living room looks wonderful, mijo,” she says cheerfully. “You didn’t strain your leg, did you?” 

 

Just remembering the brace I had to wear for a few weeks makes me cringe. “No.” 

 

In a way, I’m dealing with things the way Margaret does. Slap a blanket of numbness over any emotional pain, over any memories that hurt. When I get cut in the kitchen or Helen bites my finger almost clean off, she slaps some VapoRub on it and tells me I’ll be fine. Things are better that way. I can’t face them head-on. Not yet. I’d rather pluck weeds, cover my arms in snails and scare the shit out of Margaret, chase the chickens, and rub Henry’s soft fur. I’d rather be far into my mind, letting what’s left take control, than remember. 

 

I’m sitting by the open window overlooking the garden idly reading through Elizabeth Blackwell’s  _ A Curious Herbal _ when I hear the sound of tires on gravel somewhere outside, and the chickens begin going insane the way they do when they meet someone new. I can’t see the driveway, but I tense, reaching for the knives that are no longer on my person, because nobody ever visits but the McCutchen’s, but they just walk across the road. 

 

Margaret walks through the small hallway connecting the kitchen and living room and rests her hand on the doorknob. It hurts to move so quickly, but I drop the book and am instantly on my feet, reminding myself of every move Elijah and Cedar taught me. How to snap a neck, how to feign a move, how to block a knife. 

 

Margaret is talking to someone in a small voice, and she’s pale. I stop in the doorway of the living room and watch, the images of the death that he wrought still playing in my mind, reminding me of my failure. Of the blood and the gore and the column of smoke. 

 

My mother opens the door, and a tall woman with sleek reddish-brown hair steps into the room. 

 

She has Rowan’s eyes. 

 

“Greetings,” she says, and her voice sends a chill down my spine. “My name is Peggy Steinberg, and I would like to speak with you.” 


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which it's been 3 months and jeff's still deep in denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gradual building of plot? we don't know her. 
> 
> it's act II, motherfuckers

She doesn’t talk much. I can tell she would rather stay quiet and observe. She mostly prefers intimidation. 

 

But Peggy Steinberg doesn’t try to scare me. She sits comfortably on my mother’s pink sofa and crosses her legs, politely laces her fingers together and rests her hands on her knee. Margaret gives her chamomile tea in a little china cup, and Peggy thanks her graciously. I take the moment to observe her.

 

She’s wearing all black, for one. She’s sharp. Not just her eyeliner or the way she looks at me as if I’m some specimen under a microscope, but her features. How she dresses and holds herself. Full of authority and confidence. Her boots must add several inches to her height. She wears chains around her neck. The way she wastes no time in settling into the couch makes me itch.

 

I have a feeling this isn’t the Peggy that Tristan remembers. 

 

She clears her throat, staring at me as if she’s trying to pick me apart. She probably is. “Jeffrey Hodek.” 

 

“That would be me.” 

 

“You were present at the destruction of Portmore.” I just nod. “Good. You may accompany me there.” 

 

“I’m not going back there,” I say numbly. 

 

Peggy takes a casual sip of tea before she continues; “It wasn’t a question, Mr. Hodek.” 

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

“I will call you whatever I like.” 

 

I decide not to be bothered by her statement. “I watched around a hundred people die right after my . . .” I stop myself before I can think about his ruffled hair early in the morning. Or his voice. That’s too painful to think about. “I watched my friend kill them.” 

 

Peggy’s golden eyes hold no emotion. The only trace of feeling I detect on her pale face is the slight smirk on her lips. “You have no idea what’s going on, do you?” 

 

“I don’t really care,” I admit. 

 

“Hm.” She carefully sets the cup down on the coffee table. “I suppose it wouldn’t do much good to tell you.”

 

“It really wouldn’t,” I say dryly. 

 

“I will anyways,” Peggy says casually. “Zalgo has returned to this realm. It has been almost a thousand years since this world tasted their chaos, and we are horribly underprepared and entirely at their mercy. It was without warning. It was abrupt. I suspect that’s why it did so much damage.” Her eyes search my face. I can’t let her see how much those words hurt. “Rowan Adair Lefèvre was corrupted -” 

 

“ _Shut up_.” 

 

I surprise even myself with how low, how animalistic I sound. Three months’ worth of pent-up rage and grief in two words. It shuts Peggy up for a good twenty seconds, while those golden eyes scour my face, flicker down to my hands that are trembling in my lap. 

 

“You cannot keep hiding from it,” she says, no softer than before. “It won’t do anything but make it worse in the long run. Your mother is a psychologist. She will tell you the same.” 

 

If Margaret’s surprised Peggy knows about her profession, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she looks like she’d rather be somewhere else, because she hasn’t been called out by someone like Peggy in years. My legs start to bounce with the effort of remaining in my seat. 

 

Peggy looks unfazed by the murderous look I give her. She takes another slow sip of tea. “The Family believes that Zalgo is the Antichrist. The Elementalists are what give Zalgo a bridge into this world. At the price of their memories, their sanity, their flesh.” I see a sliver of emotion when she says it. Pure rage in those cold eyes, barely held by a leash. She wants to let go and lay waste to someone, something. At least there’s something similar between us. “The Family has created an army. They call them the Blessed. They have hunted down Elementalists and slaughtered them one by one. I only survived because I was lucky. Rowan survived because Slenderman offered him protection.” 

 

That sends a cold rush of shock down my spine. Margaret quietly leaves the room, leaving me and Peggy alone in the suddenly stiff living room. Peggy doesn’t wait for me to speak. “Zalgo had Rowan chosen the moment he was born. A fire Elementalist hasn’t been recorded in centuries. They are exceptionally powerful and make for good hosts. They are less susceptible to fatal corruption. They retain memories better.” 

 

Peggy’s eyes are like the molten sky, and I suddenly understand why no one can ever meet my gaze, if this is how they feel, to be pinned down by a single look, feeling helplessly bare and vulnerable. “Which is good news, if you are willing to help me save him.” 

 

The words don’t quite reach me. 

 

“Save . . . him?”

 

“Of course. In Zalgo’s realm, nothing is truly lost. Memories can be removed, but they cannot be shattered completely. And in Rowan’s case, he is not gone either. Locked in some part of his own mind, perhaps, for protection.” Peggy frowns. “I don’t know how we will go about retrieving him, but the knowledge that Slenderman’s library holds may help. And I would like to see Tristan again.”

 

Right. I’d almost forgotten that this terrifying demon of a woman is the fucking love of Tristan’s life.

 

“Why did he let go?” I ask. “You said he’s not as susceptible. Why did - why did Zalgo still take him?” 

 

“It’s a contractual situation,” Peggy explains. “Zalgo is a demon of chaos, a powerful one. But people forget they are also deception. Insanity. Psychological torment. A simple illusion could have been enough to completely break him. You being burned alive, completely removed from time, a number of things. What was the situation before he broke?” 

 

Pain. A raw, aching pain. I won’t cry in front of Peggy. Fortunately, I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. I feel too hollow for that. “He was sick. There were SDSC agents surrounding us. They were about to fire, and I was trying to convince them to get him to a hospital. Then I was on the hill, and Portmore was burning.” 

 

Peggy leans back in the seat and nods thoughtfully. “Displacement. Interesting. Perhaps Rowan saw them shoot you, and Zalgo took the opportunity.” 

 

“He’d been . . . sick. There were veins,” I add. “He was having headaches, and he almost had a random burnout.” 

 

“Yes. The veins and headaches are signs of corruption. The burnout not so much.” Peggy sets the teacup down. “As I said: Zalgo chose Rowan a long time ago. Slenderman knew. His mother, Anaïs, agreed to have him protect Rowan when Slenderman approached her with the information. This type of magic is dormant inside of us until we allow it to manifest. That is why Elementalists are often tracked down and eliminated before it has the chance to do so.” 

 

I don’t really care. _I don’t care_. Just give me a way to save him - “When he was destroying the town, I shot at him. He teleported, or flickered, or something. I saw an outline of him when he did, in the moment before he reappeared, and it was like a portal. I saw another universe.” 

 

“That would be Zalgo’s realm.” Then she frowns. “A portal, you said? As in, you believe you could have walked through it?” 

 

“I wasn’t paying much attention - I’m sure you could understand why,” I say bitterly. “And how much do you know about his past? His mother, all of this? Why didn’t you fucking tell anybody before?” 

 

“I was a part of the Family, being groomed to become one of the Blessed,” she says, equally as sharp, and I can tell I’ve really started getting under her skin. Good. “Everything was covered in euphemism and circumlocution. Figuring out what they all truly meant kept me sane most of the time. It taught me patience. Something you could do with a lot of.” 

 

I shrug. “I watched my friend burn down an entire town.” God, that hurts to say. “I don’t think you’re in any fucking position telling me what I could and could not _do with a lot of_.” 

 

Peggy is unphased. “I am sure you know of my involvement with the Family and the Flatwoods.” 

 

“Yes. I do. And I don’t care,” I say coldly. “Can you fucking leave?”

 

Her words are equally as cold. “I am not leaving until you say his name out loud.” 

 

I’m glad that I don’t have anything hidden on me, because I really would have thrown a knife at her. I doubt it’d do much of anything anyways. Peggy looks like she knows what the hell she’s doing. She’d have me impaled, probably. Not that I would mind. Anything to stop it all. The pain, the grief. 

 

I want it all gone. 

 

“Absolutely not,” I say finally. “But I’ll come with you, if you’re heading back to the mansion.” I rise from my chair and glare at her, still sitting sickeningly casual in the sofa, legs crossed, fingers linked in front of her. She’s wearing a smirk. 

 

“Delightful news.” Peggy’s eyes glint. “May I ask why you changed your mind so suddenly?” 

 

“Oh, that’s simple,” I say casually. “I’m going to go back, and I’m going to kill Slenderman.” 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Margaret cries when I tell her I’m leaving. 

 

“I’ll keep in touch,” I’m promising her, but she doesn’t believe me, and I don’t really blame her. Peggy has a phone, so I give Margaret the number and call her twice to make sure it works. She invites Peggy to stay longer, but Peggy just politely declines and insists we need to get a head start if we’re to make it to the mansion before the Family does. That thought worries me. 

 

But I refuse to leave until I’ve walked around the house one last time. To the garden I never finished, to Henry’s field, the chickens (Helen still tries to bite me), my little village in the forest, the pond, smooth as a mirror in the early morning stillness. I’m glad Peggy’s still inside when I cry. 

 

Margaret gives me a list of things to do.

 

_Finish the grief counseling book. You need it more than I do._

 

_Learn to manage your anger, pour it into something else - Start drawing more often, mijo, your art is lovely. Pour your emotion into that, don’t bottle it up. Move that blanket._

 

_Learn to cut your hair._

 

_Write me a song for when you get back._

  
  


* * *

 

 

Peggy has two dogs. 

 

One’s a - what the hell is that, a rottweiler? It looks more like a damn demon. She calls it Moses. The other one, Lilith, is a massive great dane, as calm and tranquil as death itself. I had no idea they were here until I walked over to her car. It’s a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, impossibly clean and somewhat intimidating. The dogs don’t bark, they just sit there calmly watching. Margaret doesn’t seem to like them very much. She stays a good ten feet away. 

 

“They could hurt the chickens,” I say gruffly, tossing my bags into the trunk. 

 

“Moses and Lilith would not hurt your chickens unless I commanded them to,” Peggy says calmly. 

 

I give Margaret an _oh God help me_ look. She’s gotten her crying out of the way, and so have I. But her eyes still water when she hugs me. I hug her back, and I don’t let go. 

 

“I’ll start on that book,” I promise, while she hurriedly tries to fix my bangs. 

 

“I think it’ll be good for you.” Margaret smiles nervously. “I’m going to miss you. Please come back soon.” 

 

“I will.” I can’t promise her that. It’s the one thing I can’t, and she knows. But she still smiles and kisses my forehead and tells me how much she loves me in Spanish. A small, private conversation, reserved for the two of us. Peggy doesn’t seem to mind in the least. 

 

Margaret stands outside as we leave, the chickens crowding around her feet. Peggy’s two dogs settle in the back on a blanket she has set out for them. The interior of the Impala is messier than I had expected from her, but not in a trashy way. There are folders and papers and a few empty Red Bull cans. Peggy looks like she runs exclusively on energy drinks and pure spite. 

 

“Well,” I say, once we’re far away from Margaret Hodek’s driveway. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.” 

 

“I will return you to your mother’s house, when this is over, if you’d like,” she says. “But I needed your help.” 

 

I huff. 

 

“And now that I have you on my side,” she adds slowly, carefully, “I need to tell you something I don’t think you’ll like.” 

 

My heart _drops_ . It’s something about _him_ , it’s something about my mother, Tristan, LJ - “I am . . . partnered with Cedar Belfaguer. He’s been assisting me with this for a few years now, and he’d like to speak with you again. Strictly business purposes,” she adds, after a moment of thought. 

 

Surprisingly, I’m not as angry as I’d like to be. In fact, I’d like to see Cedar again. Apologize for being an asshole the day I left. “Okay. Not promising I’ll be nice. Is he working with the Flatwoods?” 

 

“He voluntarily left the Flatwoods several years ago. He’s been working with Belial and I.” 

 

Belial - that’s a familiar name. “I know him.” 

 

“Do you?” 

 

“Yeah. I think Tristan mentioned him once or twice. But he was an old friend. How is he mixed up in all of this?” 

 

Peggy shrugs. “I’m beginning to think anyone who becomes friends with Tristan is dragged into this. It’s almost like an initiation ceremony.” 

 

I blink, surprised. “Is that _humor_ I’m hearing?” 

 

“I’m not a robot.” 

 

“Huh.” 

 

“Belial is staying in a small town by the highway for now,” Peggy explains. “I figured it would be easier for you . . . _not_ to meet him immediately. I did not want to throw so much on you at once, and I’m afraid he’s a handful.” 

 

“I’m sure he is,” I say dryly, leaning my head against the window. 

 

Some minutes of silence pass. I’m already missing Margaret and her books and the chickens. I start wondering if this was another mistake - abandoning the only chance of healing that I had, even if I refused to open up. Guess this is just a broken bone healed the wrong way. I’ve got to break it again. And that’s going to be painful. And I’m not ready. 

 

I miss him. I miss Rowan. 

 

“What was he like?” Peggy asks quietly. 

 

I wipe my eyes before she looks over and shift closer to the window. “I don’t know where to begin with that. Fucking irritating, for one, and I loved him for it.” I flinch when my voice breaks. “Ah . . . Kind of an idiot, but we both were, so we balanced it out naturally. Soft. Bad with words. Always smelled like ash, but managed to make it endearing. He’d barely touch you and it felt like you got slapped by a fucking ghost.” 

 

Peggy’s lips twitch into a smile. “He sounds delightful. I can’t wait to meet him.” 

 

And with that, every ounce of distaste I have for her crumbles away. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

We pull into a small motel, a single story, somewhat vacant. There’s an older woman smoking outside as we get out of the car. She gives both of us a dirty look. I can tell she wants to say something, but Peggy silences the woman with a single glare before she even speaks. 

 

She knocks on room 06. The door swings open immediately, and a man with numerous piercings and wild hair stands there, scowling. “An’ she finally decides to fucking show!” he shouts, surprising me with a strong Derbyshire accent. “You know I was gettin’ fucking bored waiting for you, and _this_ bloody cunt,” he jerks a thumb towards the woman, who suddenly looks started and hurries inside, “has been saying ripe shit about my hair and shit, and my piercings, _‘how do you get through the airport -_ ’ shut the fuck up, bitch!” he screams at her, right before she slams her door shut, “I don’t leave the country!” 

 

Peggy’s eye twitches. 

 

Belial scowls at her. “What are _you_ staring at? You know there was a guy around here, poking about, asking about -” Then he seems to just notice me, and his eyes go a bit wider. “ _Oh_. You found him.” 

 

“Of course I did. I was trained to be able to track people down efficiently,” Peggy says stiffly. 

 

“You know, Peg, you don’t have to act all high and mighty around me, with all that fancy talk,” Belial says dryly. “We’ve been friends for a fat fucking minute.” 

 

“I am not your friend, Belial. We are acquaintances.” 

 

Belial rolls his eyes and studies me. “Well, aren’t you fucking adorable. I can smell the PTSD from here.” 

 

“I try to smell as presentable as possible,” I say. 

 

Belial looks impressed. “I like him. Tragic hair, though.” 

 

Peggy shifts. I can feel the rage slowly sizzling off of her. I _really_ don’t want to see her get angry - at least the car ride back to the mansion is going to be interesting, though. I notice how small Belial is. Smaller than Ben. His hips are disproportionate to his shoulders, bigger. His legs are thin and it looks like I could easily snap one of his wrists. His jawline is sharp, his nose upturned just slightly - he’d actually be very attractive, if it weren’t for the slightly irritating accent and the constant shrieking, but he’s . . . soft. Is he . . . ? 

 

No. That’s a question for later. 

 

“Well let’s get a right fucking move on!” Belial says cheerfully. He disappears inside the motel room and comes back out with a small bag. It must have been his belongings I saw in the trunk, along with mine and Peggy’s. There isn’t much there, but I think I saw a harmonica. That’ll be interesting. 

 

Belial sits in the back, and has no trouble squeezing in between Moses and Lilith. They seem happy to see him. When Lilith opens her mouth to give him a kiss, I see the glint of titanium fangs. It makes my stomach roll. 

 

“How many people have your dogs killed?” I ask Peggy. 

 

Belial cuts in, unsurprisingly; “Saw them tear a guy to fucking shreds the other week! It was a Family guy, feeling all mighty with his big gun - or was that one of the little guns? I never pay attention, too busy running for my life.” 

 

“Perhaps you should learn some basic fighting skills,” Peggy suggests calmly, though there’s a strong hint of _fuck you_ in her tone. 

 

“Nah, I’m good as long as you stand in front of me.” 

 

“How’d you two meet? Through Tristan?” Anything to keep my mind from wandering too much. To the mansion, to Cedar. To . . . him. And his stupid smile that I adored so much. 

 

It occurs to me that Belial’s not wearing a seatbelt and Peggy’s going twenty over the speed limit. I’m going to die with these two before we make it halfway to the mansion. Belial leans into the front, resting his elbows on both the front seats. “We actually met at the fireworks. Tristan took Peggy, and I bothered her.” 

 

“You did.” 

 

“It was real nice. Met her again not too long ago, been talking to her and whatnot but never actually _saw_ her in person,” Belial says to me. “Met up at some location, got ambushed, and she killed every single one of the fuckers in like twenty minutes. That was a bunch of dead, all the way back.” 

 

“Please, you’re giving me too much credit,” Peggy says grimly. “It was _thirty_ minutes, and I had Moses and Lilith’s help.” The dogs perk up in the back at that. Belial wraps an arm around Lilith. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, story’s a story. Doesn’t matter, it sounds nice, you’re a legend, bleh.” 

 

“Belial knows about the religious doctrine of the Family better than anyone else,” Peggy says. Belial scowls when he realizes she’s changing the conversation topic. “I experienced it firsthand, but it’s difficult to speak of it without bias. Unfortunately, his methods of explanation are . . . confusing at best.” 

 

“What’s the worst?” Belial croons. 

 

“Absolutely fucking insane,” Peggy says, putting emphasis on each word. 

 

Belial tosses his hands up. “A’ight, you wanted it. _Proper culture_ , that’s what they think, _the Lord’s coming back_ , gonna be a big boom, trumpets all ‘round, that kind of baloney. _Redemption for those who trust in the Lord_ , _retribution against those who oppose Him_ . The ‘right’ way, the ‘proper’ way, blah blah pbbth.” He retches. “Just saying that tastes like balls in my mouth. They’ve got this one man, big hat fella, right? And he’s like the head of their _itty bitty but not really_ absolutely _fucked up_ church. Bullshite all ‘round that place. Treat their women like pigs, yeah?” 

 

Peggy’s hands tighten around the wheel. “Men rule in the Family. That is true.” There are hidden wounds there - I can only imagine the abuse she went through. 

 

“And people like _me_ , the _corrupted, wrong,_ oh! You’ve got trauma, that made you that way - watched Naruto once and now I’m busy sucking cock - that’s what they think. Pray the gay away, pray everything else away, mental health be damned.” 

 

I’m . . . I’m in a car full of gay. 

 

“ _And so_ , it’s all, ‘get out of my head, bitch-face,’ and then them saying you’ve got demons. And you laugh and think they’re just being insane like all cultists are. Only there are _actually_ demons, and then it’s oh _shit_ . It’s in your head now, no escape, I’m done, _done_ , through with it.” Belial . . . sounds pissed? I have no idea what’s happening, but it sounds like he really doesn’t like the Family, at least. “They talk to a bottle of water and all of a sudden it’s holy? They’re religious nuts who are bad at it. I can talk to a bottle of my piss and it’s holy. Holy piss grenade.” 

 

Peggy glances at me. It’s more apologetic than anything.

 

“You escape, think you got silence, cause you think they’re talking and you can decide not to listen. But it’s not out, it’s in. It’s _inside_ your head, and then you’re thinking like them, just normally, every day, and it hurts.” Belial finishes with a tone of finality and a voice crack.

 

But I know why Peggy asked him to speak now, at least. Belial has a lot to say about everything, it seems, I realize the more he talks about pretty much anything on our way to the mansion. He talks about weird shit easily, like it’s natural. He knows what not to talk about. And he’s good at distracting me from thinking too much about what happened a few months ago. That I’m thankful for. 

 

“Can you play?” he asks eventually, when Peggy’s listening to music with earbuds and isn’t paying us any attention. He motions to the ukulele I decided to put up front with my smaller bag. “I’ve got a harmonica and a kalimba. Can’t play either very well, though. I’m more of a kazoo guy, personally.” 

 

That’s a . . . pleasant surprise. “Do you have one?” 

 

“Not on me, unfortunately. Had a cheapo one, but _someone broke it_.” Belial glares at Peggy from the rear view mirror. She meets his gaze briefly and grins wickedly. I’m guessing it hadn’t been an accident. 

 

Belial doesn’t run out of subjects to drone on and on about - he reminds me a little bit of my 6th grade history teacher. He runs off on tangents, tells an entirely different story, and then switches back to the original one by the time I’ve forgotten what he was talking about. He talks about raccoons in excessive detail and for some reason I find myself actually _listening_ , complains about the weather in colorful terms that I find myself internally noting (‘the humidity’s _fat_ here’ and ‘that shit’s not right, I’ve got frizz all the way to the carpet’ being my two favorite so far). He talks about life in the Middle Ages, the Bubonic Plague, Chinese trade routes, whether or not making a necklace out of human remains is ethical or not, hair bows made out of actual frogs he found on some website, and the quickly declining snow leopard population. Then he goes off on some dramatic story about two snakes, a barrel of cheese, and a very upset hooker. 

 

He’s good at distracting. Maybe that’s why Peggy’s put up with him this long - maybe he’s helped her and she figured he’d help me ignore the fact that at first I lost someone I cared deeply about, and then I was torn away from someone I truly love in a matter of three months. 

 

Time heals most wounds. Most of it healed, and then I shoved everything else back, but now it’s _there_ , fresh and aching, and losing Margaret is just extra salt on the wound. Belial’s nonstop talking helps. Lilith resting her head on my lap when my chest aches helps. Moses hopping on my lap and refusing to stop licking my face helps. Peggy’s gentle optimism helps. 

 

I tell myself I’ll be fine, eventually. We’ll save him. And then both of us can find a therapist, adopt a cat or two, and I can go see Margaret and play the ukulele for her. 

 

It won’t happen. But the thought is comforting, and that’s what matters for now. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Belial falls asleep on the fourth hour of the trip, leaving me and Peggy in silence. 

 

She keeps her eyes on the road, keeps the heat on nearly full blast because she has a similar effect as Rowan. She sucks all the heat away, but she doesn’t take it. She gets rid of it completely, chases it out. I wonder if she doesn’t know how to control it or if she enjoys turning every enclosed space into an icebox. 

 

“Teach me Spanish.” 

 

I don’t know if it’s a demand or a request, she keeps her tone neutral. Either way, I’m surprised. Perhaps I shouldn’t be. Peggy spent most of her life in a cult, probably locked in a tiny room being force-fed religious indoctrination. She’s a patient person, one that seems like she’d easily understand languages. So what’s the harm in trying? 

 

“I’m not sure where I’d start,” I admit. 

 

“Anywhere you’d like. I pick up languages fairly quickly.” Peggy doesn’t turn away from the road. “I learned to speak advanced Latin in a year, and that was from eavesdropping and stealing books and cross-referencing everything. I’m certain you’re a wonderful teacher - you’re a native speaker, aren’t you?” 

 

“I speak English better than Spanish, to be honest.” 

 

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” 

 

Well. She _did_ ask. And I _did_ take some Spanish when I was younger - it was a requirement, even though I already spoke the language, and it was the only class I had an A in that year. So I start with what I remember our instructor starting with. Simple verb conjugation, greetings, and responses. Small conversation tidbits. And Peggy’s right. She does pick up on language fast. 

 

“What about verbs that don’t end in -ar?” she asks. 

 

“There’s -er and -ir.” 

 

“I’m guessing their conjugation patterns differ.” 

 

“They do, but they’re similar to each other.” 

 

I’m not aware Belial’s been listening for a while until he speaks. “Wait okay, but I watched Dora the Explorer as a kid. She said vaminos - vamonos - something like that. You said - what was that? Vamina?” 

 

“Vamino.” 

 

Belial stutters for a moment. “And that means ‘to go?’ But the actual word is ir?” 

 

“Yes. The word _ir_ means _to go_ , but it’s conjugated _voy, vas, va, vamos,_ and _van_ . _Vamonos_ is like a phrase for ‘let’s go.’”

 

Peggy nods. “That makes sense. Every language has odd little rules here and there.” 

 

“That’s bloody stupid,” Belial grumbles. “And you said all the J’s are H's? All of ‘em?” 

 

“All of them,” I say. 

 

“So that means your name is pronounced like Heffrey.” 

 

Goddammit. Not again.

 

I glare at him. “ _Yes_ , technically, but whenever I was around family I went by Camilo. It’s my middle name.” 

 

“It is true Hispanic families like rice?” Belial gets a dangerous glare from Peggy at that one. 

 

It doesn’t bother me. I’m used to the slightly invasive questions. “Well . . . I don't know. I guess we did. We had about ten tubs at once sometimes. And family gatherings were always insane. I had like seventy cousins and they’d all flood the kitchen the moment my grandma said the tamales were done.” I shiver at the memory. “Too many fucking cousins.” 

 

“Too many _fucking_ ,” Belial says sardonically. “Too much fucking. Wear a condom, Christ. My family fucked way too often for religious reasons - _God’s my birth control_ \- type’a’shit. I had _fifty_ cousins. _Thirteen_ siblings. Thirteen siblings and three dogs all in a tiny house, it was chaos. I’m glad they kicked me out.” 

 

I frown. “Why’d your parents kick you out?” 

 

“Born a girl."

 

"Oh." 

 

“It's shit, but at least I got my pomeranian back,” Belial continues, blissfully unaware of the sudden awkward tension in the car. “His name is Oeuf. It’s egg in French. See, you aren’t the only bilingual in the house.” 

 

“You have a dog?” I say incredulously. 

 

“Yepperoni. His name is Oeuf. It’s egg in French.” 

 

“You just said that.” 

 

“I know. And you asked me if I have a dog _right after I said I got my pomeranian named Oeuf back_.” 

 

Peggy snorts. 

 

“Know what? I walked right into that,” I say sadly. 

 

“You really did,” Belial says. 

 

We lapse back in silence. I don’t mind it. It’s not the painful silence I’m used to, where I’m scared I’m going to start coming out of that dark corner in my mind. This is fine. I’m content. Belial is giggling about something he’s probably going to say out loud in a few minutes, the dogs are sleeping, and Peggy’s humming along to My Chemical Romance. 

 

This is good. I like this. I can do better around these people - these people who aren’t afraid of holding back like I am, who aren’t going to judge me for it. 

 

“Have you ever taken a shit in the shower?” Belial blurts. 

 

Peggy almost slams on the brakes and I start into hysterics before I can stop myself. 

 

“And just waffle-stomped it down the drain?” he continues forlornly. 

 

“ _Belial_.” 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Belial goes quiet after an hour or two, busy painting his nails in the bag with one of his legs propped up against the center console and the other squished by Peggy’s seat. He doesn’t seem to mind, since he’s already proven himself to be pretty bendy. 

 

We come across the Portmore sign at around noon, untouched by the chaos. Peggy stops the car about half a mile from the town, something about not wanting it to get ash or dirt on it, and we continue on foot from there. 

 

She discreetly hands me a bottle of pills, tells me to take two. I down three. 

 

It takes us about twenty minutes to struggle down the hill. It’s quiet. There are no birds singing, no cars driving past on the highway. Nothing but the wind and the faintest smell of smoke. I imagine if it weren’t for whatever it was Peggy gave me, I’d be panicking. 

 

We start sinking in the ash. We pass another sign, one that I remember pointing to the gas station. But the gas station and the small shops that had surrounded it are nowhere to be seen. 

 

Peggy wanders over to where the layer of ash is the thinnest and begins moving it away with her boot, making a small clearing. The ground underneath it is solid concrete, scorched in some places, and there’s a hole for what used to be a pipe. My skin prickles. It’s the layout of the gas station. It’s been completely destroyed. 

 

“There was a building there,” I breathe, slowly tearing my eyes from where the gas station once was, over to the emptiness that surrounds us for another twenty yards. “And there. And there.” I point to the places where I distinctly remember them being - how could I forget? The small souvenier shop was here, the pet store was there, the bike rental was behind it . . . 

 

So many people turned to ash. Do their families know? Does anyone even know who they were? Or has the SDSC covered that up, too? 

 

“Careful,” Peggy calls to Belial, who’s climbing on top of a car diagonally resting on a massive chunk of concrete to get a better view. “This place is a graveyard now. Do not disrupt the dead.” 

 

I feel bile rising in the bottom of my throat, but my heart stays oddly calm. I walk numbly over to the epicenter of the blast, a single ring of blackness surrounding it where the fire was. The truck is several feet away, still cut in half, trapped between two buildings. 

 

My foot knocks against something. A human skull that shatters and turns into nothing more than dust. 

 

Belial’s singing something. I turn around, on edge and ready to scream at him, tell him to shut the fuck up and give the dead some respect, but I stop. He’s digging with his fingers through the ash, gently picking up pieces of bone and clothing that survived, lining them up near a trench that was made by a flying piece of metal. 

 

“The atmosphere here is thin,” Peggy announces, looking over the remains of the town. “We should do what we can to bury the dead. They do not deserve to whither away here, forgotten.” 

 

Belial finishes burying the bones and joins us by the most stable-looking building. I can’t tell what it used to be. An office, maybe, or a hotel. It’s been burned from the inside out, nothing but an empty shell of scorched drywall and bloodstains. Not everyone was burned, it seems. We’ve found bodies sliced in half, decapitated, torn to pieces. 

 

“For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return,” Peggy says, gently picking up a skull and turning it over in her hands. The jaw crumbles off. “That is a verse we learned. It dissuaded any . . .” She stops herself, a flicker of a pained grimace passing over her face. 

 

Belial sticks his hands in his pockets and whistles lowly. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” 

 

Peggy makes a noise, somewhere between a sad laugh and a pained sigh. “Yes. The magnitude of the destruction here is . . . at least twice as large as Abernathy. And I assume what happened at Abernathy was something similar.” 

 

He never spoke about Abernathy. It never occured to me that maybe he didn’t remember it at all. He’d get a glossed look in his eyes whenever it was on the news that one time - and then he locked himself in his lonely tower for hours. 

 

Peggy and Belial set off on uncovering as many human remains as possible - mostly just larger bones, like skulls and femurs. I wander aimlessly around, at first going over to the truck and running my hand down the side, leaving a clean streak. 

 

The memories begin coming back, all the one’s I’d shoved into a dark corner and tossed a blanket over - the ukulele, him singing under his breath thinking I couldn’t hear him, how amazed he seemed at the lights and noises of Las Vegas, staring out of the window with an awed expression. How the neon signs reflected in his pretty golden eyes. I quickly back away from those thoughts before they get too loud, like jerking my hand from a hot surface.

 

There’s a burned out building that no one’s touched yet. Moses follows me, leaving Lilith behind with Belial. I wonder how often he leaves Peggy’s side. 

 

It takes me a moment to realize it used to be a motel - in the small space is what remains of a bed, shattered bathroom tiles, and a refrigerator scorched a dark brown. There are three shapes huddled in the corner, mangled beyond recognition, but I know what they used to be. One of them is much smaller than the other two. The inside of the motel barely gave them any protection from the blast.

 

It’s a miracle I’m still alive, isn’t it? 

 

I’d like to believe that was Rowan’s doing, somehow. Maybe a tiny piece of him remained long enough. 

 

The ash is cold against my fingertips. I sit down and shuffle idly through it, trying to keep myself together, struggling against the memories that start slipping out from the bottom of the blanket. _Don’t cry. Please don’t cry_. I finally give up when Moses walks over and presses his head against my knees and start sobbing. 

 

He’s gone. 

 

How am I going to tell Tristan? EJ? Sally? How am I going to find his mother and tell her? That her son LJ promised he’d protect is gone forever and it’s my fault? Peggy says Slenderman tried to protect him. Maybe that’s why he was always in Rowan’s head, maybe the runes ruined it, maybe -

 

The burning in my hands jerks me to attention, and I realize I’ve been scrabbling at the bloodsoaked dirt while Moses watches. My fingers are raw and bloody. They shake as I reach up to wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

 

I wipe my hands off, and when they don’t stop bleeding I stick them in my pockets. I lean against the wall trying to control my breathing and I wait until I’m certain it’s not immediately obvious I’ve been crying. 

 

I know my eyes are still red when I manage to gather myself and walk out of the building. Peggy and Belial say nothing. 


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which team zalgo blows (aka team fuckass) begins coming together

He’s not what she expected. 

 

Peggy has to admit, she’s not even sure what she expected. Definitely the nihilistic bitterness, but she wasn’t aware Jeff and Rowan were romantically involved. He hasn’t told her, hasn’t even hinted at it, but she can tell. There’s a familiar pain in his eyes when he talks about him, like Rosie used to have when she talked about her husband the Family murdered. 

 

Jeff stays quiet after Portmore, staring out the window with his chin resting on his hand. Peggy notices how suddenly bruised and scraped up they are, but she doesn’t say anything. Every once in a while his breathing will hitch, and his eyes will get red. He’ll politely request for Peggy to turn the music up, or ask Belial about everyday life for the Vikings. He’s distracting himself from thinking about Rowan. Peggy used to do the same thing. Albeit more violently. 

 

Cedar Belfaguer hasn’t been responding. Peggy would like to believe he’s off on another job, bribing politicians and terrorizing child abusers for little to nothing other than personal pleasure, but Cedar’s focus is on Jeffrey Hodek. She doubts he’d go off on another contract, especially now. 

 

But that’s his personality. Impulsive and arrogant if not a big deranged. Peggy prefers pragmatism to the point of moral ambiguity, and it’s honestly a wonder how Cedar ever agreed to work with her. Maybe it was Jeff. 

 

In that case, she has to thank him. 

 

She calmly zones back in on the conversation Belial and Jeff have been having for the past thirty minutes. 

 

“. . . Horn of Africa.”

 

. . . _What?_  

 

“I was told it was all one place, one population, or multiple large groups of them,” Jeff adds. It’s the first time in a few hours Peggy has seen him turned around in his seat, a small light back in his eyes. Peggy frowns; what is this? Origin of mankind? Now that’s a conversation worth listening in on. 

 

“The single population myth has been disregarded as too simplistic,” Belial explains. “Some bitches from some big university I don’t care about said something like it’s way more complicated than that. Fossil, archaeological, and genetic evidence suggests there were actually groups all over the African continent, and it was breeding between them and cultural exchanges that resulted in modern humans. There were - what, four? - distinctive groups.” 

 

“ _Homo erectus, Homo neanderthal_ -something, homo . . . ?” 

 

“ _Homo erectus,_ _Homo neanderthalis_ , _Homo antecessor,_ and our favorite boys, _Homo sapiens_.” Belial shrugs. “The differences between them were probably because of hella long periods of being separated by rivers, mountains, that sort of thing. But there were _others_ , too. _Homo naledi_ and _Homo heidelbergensis_. There were bones of _Homo sapiens_ found in Jebel Irhoud, super fucking old. You know the Garden of Eden theory in Africa? These bones were older than that by like a hundred thousand years.” 

 

“ _Damn_ ,” Jeff breathes. “Wasn’t there a rising belief that the Garden of Eden was actually the full size of the continent, maybe?” 

 

“Maybe,” Belial agrees. 

 

“Before Jebel Irhoud, what was the oldest? It was in Ethiopia, wasn’t it?” 

 

“Omo Kibish.” 

 

They talk about that for a while, from the small details of the archaeological dig to the impact  the findings had, something about isotope analyses. Peggy begins zoning out again - she’s not knowledgeable when it comes to sciences. She can’t keep up. 

 

“Did you know they think Lucy died from falling out of a tree?” Jeff says. That catches her attention. Peggy’s heard of Lucy - she’s millions of years old, isn’t she? One of the Fathers in the Family had talked about it during a nighttime sermon, had screamed for hours. That we don’t come from apes. That’s an attack against God and His perfect human creation in His own image. She had sat through that sermon, remembering everything she’d once read in one of Tristan’s science books. She had sat quietly.

 

Fuming. 

 

Belial laughs for a moment, and then goes serious. “Neither verifiable or falsifiable. Unprovable.” 

 

“It would be funny, though.” 

 

“It _would_.” 

 

“Belial,” Peggy says, her voice coming out fluidly neutral, just as she had wanted it to, “How do you know all of this? I would have thought your parents would forbid you from learning about it.” 

 

“Mom n’ Dad thought embracing evolution was throwing away biblical authority,” Belial says sourly. “ _Ooh, the Bible’s all right, every word, God never makes mistakes_ . Bullshit! _Ooh, God’s hand is in every ounce of creation_ . Bullshit! _The whole friggin’ universe was created in seven days._ Bullshit!” 

 

Peggy realizes that Jeff is staring at her. His eyes are unsettling - it’s interesting. She rouses enough irritation to passive-aggressively ask for him to stop, but he beats her to it; “Did you learn about science at all?” he asks. “Tristan told me your parents were very religious and anti-everything that didn’t kiss the Bible’s ass.” 

 

She huffs, turning her eyes back to the road. “Yes, they were. And no, I never had the opportunity to learn sciences or anything beyond basic mathematics. Tristan taught me some, but it was limited.” 

 

“Biology? Cells and natural variation and _the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell_ and such?” Belial pipes up. “None of that, either? Or at least earth sciences?” 

 

“Some earth science.” Not like she remembers. “I never learned biology - they feared it would inevitably lead to the theory of evolution.” 

 

“Okay, but - evolution is different than the origin of mankind,” Belial adds. 

 

“Try telling them that,” Peggy grumbles. 

 

Jeff frowns. “Why wouldn’t they teach you math?” 

 

Her fingers curl tightly around the wheel. Bad memories there. All her male siblings went on to become doctors, bankers, business owners - provided they didn’t die of an illness at a young age or kill themselves. _They_ were taught sciences, maths. _They_ were taught economics and world history. 

 

While she, along with all her sisters, were raised to become incubators or Blessed. 

 

“Out of fear that I would begin thinking for myself,” she says, her voice coming out in a low snarl. It shatters her neutrality, and she internally curses herself for it. 

 

She hopes that neither of them notice or care. But it’s obvious they do. Jeff’s hard lines soften, and Belial bristles and opens his mouth to say something. 

 

“I did, however,” she says quickly, cutting both of them off, “meet an older woman named Rosie. She did not have the knowledge to teach me math and science, but she taught me other things. Mental control. Observation. Belief and imposed sympathy. Patience.” 

 

“Mental control?” Jeff echoes. 

 

“As practice, I played games with myself. To put it simply, I would separate mind into two parts. They would fight each other, or hide, or play a game of cards.” Peggy distinctly recalls sneaking the cards down to Rosie’s small room, where she kept books and pens and rich-smelling candles. There was never much light down there, but she didn’t mind. “She taught me almost complete mastery over my emotions. For example, I was able to overcome my fear of spiders within twenty minutes.” The first time she’d held the brown recluse with a calm heart - that was the first time she’d truly felt pride. 

 

She smiles at the memory. She hopes Rosie made it out alive. 

 

Belial quirks a brow. “Almost?” 

 

“I am still afraid of men,” Peggy says eventually. Jeff’s brows furrow. He’s thinking something. “Living in the Family as a woman, you would be a fool not to. But they were not idiots. They recognized my changes, and they knew to stay away. I am afraid of men,” she adds slowly, “but it is a different fear than what my fear of spiders was. It is something I was taught from the moment I was born. It is something I cannot remove.”  

 

“Observation.” Jeff’s face is calm. Not the split second of anger Peggy had seen a moment ago. He is quite well at hiding his emotions, too. “What’s that?” 

 

Peggy’s lips etch into a smile. “You only speak or think his name when you are breaking down and there is no point in denying what happened. That is your way of protecting yourself from the pain.” She motions idly to Belial. “You are deeply afraid of your parents. I suppose in a way it is my fear of men. You don’t mean it, and you’d like to ignore it, but every time you see them, every time I so much as speak their name, you tense up. There is a cold fear in your eyes.” 

 

When both of them say absolutely nothing, she continues; “On a less serious note, Jeff wears oversized clothing because he likes feeling small. Belial wears cheap cologne because he likes the acrid smell of it.” 

 

“I’m weird, I know,” Belial says proudly, while Jeff’s ears turn red. 

 

“ _That_ is observation,” she concludes. “Finding baselines, identifying behavioral deviations, studying their posture and gestures, the words they use. It helped me survive. I could identify people to trust based on their facial expressions, how they walked, how they spoke to their superiors.” 

 

“Teach me,” Belial breathes. “‘Cause I’m fucking _balls_ at talking to people.” 

 

“Imposed sympathy.” Jeff has already managed to wipe that embarrassed look off his face. Impressive. “That’s - putting your will into the world, right? Does that actually work?” 

 

“If I drop a stone, what will it do?” 

 

“Fall, duh,” Belial mutters. 

 

“Do you believe it will fall?” 

 

“Well, yeah. That’s how it works.” 

 

“What if I believed that it would fall sideways?” Peggy counters. 

 

Belial stares at her. “What the fuck. It won’t - that’s - that’s not how gravity works.” 

 

“What if I believe, _firmly_ , with not a single bit of doubt, that the laws of gravity will make exceptions for this one stone? That this rock will fall sideways, or upwards, or won’t fall at all?” Peggy continues. “The rock _will_ fall, obviously. But that is the point. Imposed sympathy is holding an unyielding belief that the rock will not fall, despite all evidence to the contrary.” 

 

Jeff raises a bit in his seat, like a bird rousing itself from sleep. “And imposed sympathy - it’s a method of ignoring physical or mental discomforts.” 

 

 _He’s getting it_. “Such as?” 

 

“Grief.” 

 

Belial winces. “Well that’s sad. How long did it take for you to get that shit?” 

 

“Three years,” she replies. 

 

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Belial wheezes. “How does anyone have time for that?” 

 

Peggy shrugs. “I was taught the art of patience. Stacking rocks, sitting completely still for hours at a time, that sort of thing.” She chuckles. “Believe me, you’d have to be a master of patience to survive the lessons with Rosie.” 

 

“I have a question, if you don’t mind,” Jeff says suddenly. His eyes are on Peggy’s hair, not her face or her hands clenched tight around the steering wheel. “Why isn’t your hair white?” 

 

An interesting change of subject. “Oh, I dye it.” 

 

“Really?” He sounds surprised. 

 

“White hair is hot, though,” Belial agrees. Jeff glares at him. 

 

“It would be easier for the SDSC to recognize me,” Peggy explains. “Though they do already know I am an Elementalist, so I suppose there’s no point.” 

 

She _would_ explain that her hair is thin from years of malnourishment and poor personal hygiene and therefore thin, white hair isn’t really the greatest idea, but neither of them really need to know that much detail. There’s also the implications of white hair. Something Rosie had taught her was the human tendency of association. White is the color of perfection, of innocence, of purity, of goodness. 

 

And Peggy is none of those things. 

 

* * *

 

 

They reach a small gas station a few hours later, and Peggy stops for gas. The woman at the register pretends not to notice that there’s blood on the money she hands over. 

 

Peggy knows that both her and Belial survives on Red Bull and Sour Patch Kids, and she’s absolutely fine with that, but she isn’t sure when the last time Jeff’s eaten was. He’s thin and haggard, almost like he’s halfway to becoming a walking corpse. He trembles when he moves. She isn’t sure if that’s the pain and trauma or hunger. And it worries her that she can’t tell. 

 

She decides not to get anything but some water bottles. 

 

And a pack of Sour Patch Kids. 

 

Belial nearly launches himself over the seat in glee when she waves the pack in the air as she walks out of the gas station. She chucks it into the backseat and Belial yells something incomprehensible. 

 

Jeff frowns. He doesn’t say anything. 

 

Belial quickly separates the red and blue ones from the rest and hands them to Peggy. She drops them into her front pocket. 

 

“I can’t believe I’m stuck in a car with you two,” she hears Jeff grumbling. 

 

“Get over it, Heffrey, ‘cause you’re our friend now,” Belial says with a cackle. He slides down in his seat and almost kicks Jeff in the head when he sticks a leg between the two front seats. 

 

Jeff scowls and opens his mouth to argue, but Peggy cuts in; “Don’t bother. Belial’s given you a nickname, you’re not getting rid of him.” 

 

“ _Heffrey_? You couldn’t have picked something better?” he snaps. 

 

“Hey, I’ve got Firecracker,” Peggy says. 

 

“Firecracker? What’s the story behind that?” 

 

“Blew up a building, set off two tons of fireworks. On accident,” she adds, “because somebody,” she looks pointedly at Belial, “couldn’t do their work properly and signal me when the line was lit.” 

 

“Hey, not my fault!” he protests. 

 

“Perhaps you should start listening to directions.” 

 

“Oh yeah? Well you should . . . your arse!” 

 

Peggy scowls. 

 

“No, your mom’s arse.” 

 

“Grand,” Jeff says miserably. 

 

* * *

 

 

Once they make it into California, Peggy pulls over at a rest stop and restaurant. 

 

Like always, Belial and Jeff’s deep in some conversation she hasn’t been paying attention to. 

 

“. . . a soggy slice of bread and a hole in his underwear, and I’m just sitting there, socks shocked right off, yeah? And he doesn’t even apologize! Who does shit like that in front of _everyone_ at the store?” 

 

Jeff shrugs. “Roy Daniels, apparently. Did he at least win the election?” 

 

“Oh, tits no!” 

 

“If you want to get something to eat or use the restroom, now’s your chance,” Peggy interrupts. “I’m going to be mapping out our destination. I got a call earlier from a contact who says there’s been some activity near Greendelle, it’s about a mile and a half from here. We believe there’s an SDSC lab. I’ll be here for about an hour.” 

 

Jeff and Belial nod and go straight back to their conversation. 

 

Peggy buys a map for $1.50, orders a black coffee, and slips a red Sharpie she sees on the counter down her sleeve. She finds a secluded area in the little store, in a small square table in the back corner, and spreads the map out.

 

Finding the coordinates isn’t difficult. Finding a way into the ravine is. It isn’t detailed and Google Maps isn’t the most reliable resource. If the SDSC has an active laboratory down here, they’ve definitely got tight security measures at least half a mile out. And there’s no telling where the actual lab is. 

 

She goes to that little internal filing cabinet Rosie had taught her how to use and pulls out everything she remembers about the last lab raid. Belial had been the one who got her in. He’s small enough to fit through pretty much any ventilation system, and for some reason he never sets off alarms (except for that one time). But this lab is underground. Accessing the ventilation might be more difficult, especially since they’re entering from the outside. 

 

There must be another entrance. 

 

The bell on the door rings. Belial comes in with a miserable-looking Jeff in tow, talking about the science of politics, systems of governance, and manipulation. 

 

“Belial.” Peggy waves her arm. “Come here. I need your help.” 

 

“Okie dokie. I took Lilith and Moses out,” Belial adds, “and left the window down for them.” 

 

“Thank you. Take a look at this map.” Peggy slides it around and places her phone next to it with the satellite imaging. “There’s a half-mile radius around what I believe is the center, where the laboratory’s entrance is. The building itself spans for another three miles, if we’re going by the posts.” 

 

Belial snorts. “Three miles of religious bullshit and slavery.” 

 

“Unfortunately, most of the test subjects willingly volunteered,” Peggy says. “I’d say 80%, give or take. They believe becoming a part of ‘God’s army’ will save them from the apocalypse. The rest of them are . . . people like me. Women and girls, mostly.” 

 

“Why is that unfortunate?” Jeff asks. He slides into a chair against the wall and turns the map around to look at it closer. “If they’re got that many people giving themselves up, then there’s less room for people who are forced into it.” 

 

“Becoming one of the Blessed does not completely erase your sense of being,” Peggy says. She’s experienced it firsthand, witnessed countless tests and drills to challenge those creatures’ sense of humanity. “The Blessed do not think, but they do retain some human instincts. Hints of a personality. Those who _want_ to become Blessed will fight harder, have more resistance to physical attacks. They become commanders of small units.” 

 

She sees Jeff wince when she says units. She had had the same reaction. She decides she’ll wait to tell him that there are entire hives of these things, crawling over each other like swarms of roaches, emitting that disgusting clicking noise. 

 

Belial orders two coffees and a few bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches and smacks it all down on the table, spilling some onto the map. “So basically,” he says, stuffing a bit of his sandwich into his mouth and sliding the other ones towards Jeff, “if we run into a unit of these things, we’re royally fucked?” 

 

“Basically,” she says thickly. “Until we find Cedar.” 

 

Jeff’s eyes flicker up from the map. “Why Cedar?” 

 

“Yeah, what’s so special ‘bout him?” Belial says loudly. 

 

Peggy tells them about the hive, sees the brief flash of fear and anger in Jeff’s eyes, watches Belial’s round to the size of quarters. Cedar’s the reason she’s alive. Built an explosive out of three batteries, some wires, his left shoe, and a mirror that sent the entire mountainside crumbling. And then took out at least fifty of the Blessed with nothing but some rope, a small pistol, and a knife. 

 

The woman behind the counter is staring at them. 

 

“He sounds hot,” Belial says idly.

 

Peggy rubs her forehead. “I assure you, Cedar’s going to despise you.” 

 

“What? Why? I’m wonderful!” 

 

“You’re irritating,” she grumbles. 

 

“I think you’re fun,” Jeff assures him, patting his shoulder. Belial still looks dejected. “Hey, I’m irritating, and we still dated for over two years. It was unhealthy, but.” 

 

“Cedar talked about you,” Peggy tells him. “Not often, but he still cares about you.” 

 

“Did you, uh, find that out with your _observation_?” Jeff says with half-lidded eyes, resting his chin on his hand. “I doubt Cedar would say anything good about me.” 

 

“Why do you think so?” 

 

“Most of the time his compliments were something like ‘ _you did relatively well_ ,’ ‘ _hey, you didn’t fuck everything up like normal this time_ ,’” Jeff mutters, poking at his sandwich. Belial looks thoroughly amused. “ _‘Oh, look, you managed not to dress yourself like a fucking homeless crackhead_.’”

 

“Cedar had only good things to say about you,” Peggy says. “He said you were an exceptionally quick learner.” There were other things he said, some less appropriate and usually comments about how well Jeff could suck a dick (those Peggy chose not to listen to), but there were genuinely nice things he said. That Jeff is kind to victims of abuse, that he’s surprisingly good with children, that he would die without hesitation for those he cares about. 

 

“Aww, that’s adorable,” Belial coos. Jeff kicks him under the table. 

 

“We were both young,” he grumbles. “We were stupid. Our relationship was just - physical attraction. That’s all.” 

 

“What about your relationship with Rowan? If you don’t mind me asking.” Peggy idly draws lines and circles on the map - part of her mind watches the flinch in Jeff’s features when she says his name, the other starts planning their way into the lab. 

 

“I don’t know what that was,” he says after a moment of thought. “But it’s gone now, so don’t ask about it.” 

 

“If Rowan comes back,” Belial breaks in, “what’ll it be like for him? Emotional trauma, and all that?” 

 

Peggy shrugs. “I imagine it’ll be like going under anesthesia - one moment he’s watching Jeff die, the other . . . well, I’m not certain. Hopefully we will be able to save his physical body for him to return to. Zalgo would not risk losing their host. I’m certain they have kept his body relatively functioning.” 

 

“ _Relatively_ ,” Jeff says bitterly. “What you mean is he’s going to be emaciated and barely clinging to life?” 

 

“More or less, likely.” 

 

“What’s the point in going back to the mansion?” Jeff asks. “I know you want to see Tristan again, but other than that, why? The library?” 

 

“If we want to return Rowan to his body without the risk of permanently losing his memories, we need to understand how Zalgo’s realm works,” Peggy says. “I’ve no doubt Slenderman has locked all his knowledge there. The mansion was built on top of an old French-era building that was transported. Zalgo originated in France - which is why Rowan was chosen. An Elementalist born in the area where the connection between universes is the strongest.” 

 

“What creates an Elementalist?” 

 

“I’m not certain. There seems to be no genetic link. I assume Zalgo just . . . intervenes. Elementalists are the half-children of Behemoths. Zalgo was attributed with fire, so is Rowan. There’s reason for them to have interest.” 

 

Belial makes a face. “So that means Zalgo’s technically Rowan’s . . . Mom? Dad?” 

 

“In old texts, Zalgo is associated with male pronouns, however they technically do not have a gender,” Peggy says. “And yes, that means Zalgo _does_ technically share DNA with Rowan, though it’s not DNA as we know it. Rowan’s blood is not even blood - that is why it changes during his burnouts.” 

 

“It was on fire, that’s what EJ says,” Jeff points out. “Is that normal for all Elementalists, or just Rowan?” 

 

“It wasn’t really fire,” she replies. “I don’t know how to explain it. I’m hoping the books in Slenderman’s library will help.” 

 

“Most of them are in another language,” Jeff says suddenly, as if only now remembering. “Uh, it’s written in runes - Rowan found a sword with them cut into it, and they glow when he goes near.” 

 

Peggy frowns. She’s heard of relics like that - weapons that are capable of bonding to Elementalists. She’s only seen one, a whip, but it was destroyed years ago for fear that an Elementalist would find it. “That is interesting. The Family calls them the Instruments.” 

 

“Wow, creative,” Belial mutters around a mouthful of egg. 

 

“Instruments of the Apocalypse is the full title. If used properly, they are capable of ripping open the veil that separates universes - of course, doing that is very dangerous. It’s how Slenderman created his own pocket dimension for the mansion. He used an existing ruin and built on top of it.” Peggy sighs. “It’s an incredibly complicated and dangerous process. If Rowan has one of these Instruments in his possession, then . . .” 

 

“Well, it’s in my gym bag.” 

 

“What.”

 

Jeff shrugs. “He kept it in my gym bag, along with some book on demon shit. Also, can we please stop saying Rowan? It’s not Rowan.” 

 

“Zalgo?” Belial suggests. 

 

“Please.”

 

Peggy leans back in her seat. “We can use the sword to track him down.” 

 

Jeff leans in abruptly, almost smacking Belial’s sandwich off the table. “How?” 

 

“I’m . . . not certain. I just know they were used as tracking devices.” 

 

“You _know_? Without any doubt?” he presses. 

 

“Without any doubt.” Peggy motions towards the map. “Now, if we could get back to the issue at hand. We need to figure out a way to get into the lab.” 

 

“That’ll be easy-peasy,” Belial croons, leaning back in his chair until the two front legs lift off the ground. “Just set up a bomb, or something. Kaboom, dust, we’re in.” 

 

Peggy shakes her head. “It won’t be that easy. I would prefer Cedar’s help, but . . .” But Cedar has decided to go missing right when she needs him most. Of course he would. That sounds exactly like him. “I suppose we’ll settle with . . . our group.” 

 

“We need a name!” Belial says excitedly. “But first we’ve gotta officially initiate Heffy boy.” He slaps a hand onto Jeff’s shoulder. Jeff suddenly looks as though he’d rather be somewhere else. 

 

“Of course,” Peggy says amusedly. “We’re all friends now, I suppose.” 

 

“Friends!” Belial says enthusiastically. 

 

“Friends,” Jeff says less enthusiastically. 

 

“We need a team name,” Belial says hurriedly, letting go of Jeff’s shoulder. His chair falls back into place and almost topples over. He doesn’t seem to notice. “How about Team Zalgo’s A Bitch?” 

 

“Team Fuckass,” Jeff adds with a roguish grin. 

 

“Absolutely not,” Peggy says sharply. 

 

“Team Zalgo Eats Ass,” Belial suggests. 

 

“No.” 

 

“Public Restroom,” Jeff says. 

 

“ _No_.”

 

“Team Zalgo Blows.” 

 

Peggy pauses, considers, and then sighs. “I will allow Team Zalgo Blows.” 

 

“Fuck yeah!” Belial throws his arms up. “Team Zalgo Blows!” 

 

“I still like Team Fuckass,” Jeff grumbles. 

 

* * *

 

They have a plan. Not a solid plan, or even a relatively good plan, but it’s something, and something is infinitely better than nothing. 

 

Peggy’s the only one who stands a chance if it comes to a fight. Jeff assures her that he could fight quite well if it weren’t for nearly destroying his hip in Portmore, and Belial’s never thrown a good punch in his life. He fights like a rabid raccoon but with less charm. So Peggy falls back to trusting Moses and Lilith to protect Jeff and Belial, though she doubts Jeff needs much protecting. 

 

She hasn’t used her magic much in front of Belial. It freaks him out, especially when she cut a man in half with a sharp wall of ice a few months ago. Since then she’s been careful only to use her magic when she truly needs it. She would rather ignore that itching sensation under her skin. Using too much magic starts turning her hair white. 

 

The entrance to the lab looks like it hasn’t been used in months. They carefully crawl down the ravine and stop on a slope, surveying the situation below. There’s no security that Peggy can immediately see, just a few cameras that don’t appear to work anymore. She’s seen them at other labs. The lights aren’t on. 

 

“Is it abandoned?” she wonders out loud. 

 

“It’s one of those breeding things, ain’t it?” Belial squints. “Maybe something went wrong.” 

 

Jeff shifts beside her, peering through the brush. “Door hasn’t been opened in at least six months - look at the build-up. It’s rained here recently, and there isn’t any disturbance in the dirt around the opening. The cameras are off. Something’s happened.” 

 

“Go down,” Peggy says finally. She shoots Belial a look, “ _Carefully_.” 

 

Moses and Lilith carefully sniff for any bombs or security measures - they find a field of scattered landmines. Peggy carefully digs one up and tosses a rock. It’s deactivated - they all are. 

 

“Online security network, these things aren’t triggered by touch, but they are deactivated,” Jeff concludes after looking at a few of them. “Probably controls the cameras, too. So whatever happened, it happened on the inside.” 

 

Peggy places her hand on the sensor next to the entrance. Nothing. It’s offline. 

 

“Well, shit,” Belial says dryly. “How’re we gonna get in now?” 

 

Jeff walks around the entrance, moving his hands across the metal panels. “Cedar and I couldn’t get in with the DNA scan or whatever it is, so we looked for where the wires connect and reset the password.” 

 

“It’s not exactly a DNA scan,” Peggy says, looking around for a vent or odd dip. “More like . . . Ah, I don’t know how to explain it.” 

 

“Like a finger ID on a phone?” Belial suggests. 

 

“Yes, like that. But with the lines of your hand. Very sensitive, very expensive. The SDSC funds all the technology for these operations.” Peggy eventually gives up and joins Belial, arms crossed. Jeff is still looking. “They are different than the labs of Upsilon. It might not be wired -” 

 

Jeff finds a loose panel and tugs it off. It leads to a small opening right behind the password panel. Peggy finds herself pleasantly surprised. 

 

“If I get electrocuted,” Jeff says, his voice becoming muffled when he sticks his head inside the panel, “just leave me here to rot.” 

 

“Will do,” Belial says cheerfully. 

 

Peggy hears a rustling in the bushes behind them. Moses and Lilith perk up a few seconds before she readies her gun and pivots, staring into the forest. The sound shifts and moves sideways, farther from them. Belial hears it, too, and catches the quick look from Peggy.

 

“Could be a deer,” he suggests. 

 

“Deer don’t move like that.” Peggy scowls. “Stay here with Jeff. Lilith.” The great dane looks at her. “Stay with Belial.” 

 

She whistles towards Moses and he hurries to her side. He doesn’t have titanium fangs like Lilith that can rip through several layers of clothing and metal, but he’s stronger and faster. She only heard one body moving. Unless it’s an ambush. 

 

Peggy follows the noise, Moses growling beside her. He stops, perks up for a moment, and then begins in a different direction. Peggy follows him, her mind racing through a hundred different things it could be - an unfortunate hiker, a group of Family members looking for the lab, reinforced with SDSC soldiers. Police officers. Zalgo. 

 

She steps into a clearing and ducks. The barrel of the gun swings over her head. 

 

Moses immediately lunges towards her attacker, and she realizes the smell of smoke and gasoline. A different kind of smoke - a car? No, not heavy enough to be a car. A motorcycle.

 

The gunshot makes her ears ring, and her eyes flick to Moses. He’s fine. The bullet missed him. 

 

Peggy draws up her magic into her hands, covering her skin with frost, and swings. She feels and hears the rush of wind before her fist connects with something solid. A bike helmet. 

 

Whoever’s wearing it - it looks like a muscular woman, but Peggy can’t be too sure over how baggy their clothes are - immediately stumbles several feet back. Peggy draws up her magic from the sucking emptiness inside of her, shivers when she feels it filling every crevice of her veins. She feels the frost crawling over her face, over the grass she stands on, snapping tree limbs and long blades of grass. 

 

Her opponent tears off their helmet and throws it. 

 

The helmet moves so fast through the air it’s just a blur. Peggy barely has time to throw her arm up. The ice draws up on the surface of her skin and creates a sharp wall, and when the helmet hits her, it rings through her bones and veers off to the side, hitting one of the ice-covered trees. 

 

She breaks the wall off, draws ice to the palm of her hand and stands there as it grows to the size of a sword in one quick moment. Peggy blows her hair out of her face and looks up at her opponent.

 

A tired woman, maybe thirty, with dirty blonde hair and washed-out green tips. Her eyes are heavy and she’s covered in freckles. There’s one big one right below her left eye, lining up perfectly with her pupil. 

 

Peggy’s nails dig into the sword and she whips it around to point at the woman. She stops. 

 

_There’s no way._

 

Whoever it is - even if she thinks it’s _her_ \- the woman doesn’t seem to recognize her. Peggy glares at the cold glint of a gun barrel as the woman trains it on Moses.

 

“Shoot my dog,” Peggy says coldly, twirling ice around her fingers, “and I will rip you to fucking pieces.” 

 

The woman freezes - maybe it’s how quiet and cold Peggy’s voice is, maybe it’s the hint of a Louisiana drawl mixed with the English accent of some of the Family members she’d picked up on, maybe it’s how Lilith comes crashing through the bushes and just stands there behind Peggy - but the woman stops. 

 

Her dull eyes widen to the size of quarters. Her mouth parts slightly, and she lowers the gun. “ _Peggy_?” 

 

Peggy’s heart almost stops in her chest - it is her. It’s Tristan. 

 

Her ice sinks back deep into her skin and she drops the sword to melt on the ground. Moses senses the change and shuffles back, away from her and towards the treeline. Peggy searches her face - those exhausted, familiar eyes, the way her mouth twitches, the jagged line going from her hairline to the bottom of her jaw, over her eye, the faded haze over it, dulling out any color. It’s a relatively fresh wound.

 

She runs. 

 

Peggy makes sure all the ice is gone before she crashes into Tristan, wrapping her up in a tight hug. Tristan meets her halfway across the clearing and they both nearly tumble to the ground. 

 

There it all is - the warm attic-smell of her hair, not pleasant but not unpleasant, her warmth, how soft her skin always is, her short, startled laugh when she’s surprised. Peggy momentarily forgets about Belial, Jeff, and the lab. She holds Tristan tightly, her breath coming out in ragged gasps.

 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Tristan laughs, her face wet with tears. She grabs Peggy’s shoulders and just looks at her, her face a mix of shock and disbelief and wonder. Peggy smiles a real smile, and her face hurts, and she doesn’t remember the last time she felt so -

 

Tristan’s eyes meet Peggy’s. Her smile falters, and she lets go. 

 

“Peggy,” she breathes. “You -” 

 

“I am an Elementalist,” Peggy says, struggling to keep her voice from breaking, “Like Rowan.” 

 

Tristan’s pupils go to slits. “Rowan? You know Rowan? Where is he?” 

 

“I have not met Rowan. You would . . . you should talk to Jeff.” 

 

“Jeff’s with you?” Tristan’s eyes are wild. Desperate. 

 

It surprises Peggy. She isn’t sure what to say - “Do you know them?” 

 

“I -” Tristan breaks off, and then she’s crying again, hugging Peggy so tightly she thinks idly for a moment that her ribs may break. Peggy hugs her back, pressing her face into Tristan’s clothes. She realizes, after a moment, that they are crusted with blood. 

 

Peggy draws back to say something about the blood, or Tristan’s hair, or kiss her, or _something_ , but Belial decides to ruin the moment by crashing through the bushes. 

 

He stops, his expression shifting between confusion to curiosity to horror and then a calm acceptance. “Alright. Fair. Just wanted to tell you, ah, Jeff got in. Think he burnt his fingerprints off, though.” 

 

Peggy shuffles through the hundreds of thoughts racing through her mind, manages to push everything back long enough to say, “Good. I’ll join you two in a moment.” 

 

“You might wanna hurry. The door opened, doesn’t look good.” Belial frowns at Tristan. “The fuck is that, by the way?” 

 

“It's Tristan,” Peggy says, frowning. How do they not recognize each other? “You know, from -" 

 

“ _Tristan_?” Belial’s eyes widen. “Well shit me sideways, you got _scary_.” 

 

“Thanks, it’s the trauma,” Tristan says tiredly. 

 

“We should join Jeff,” Peggy says, firmly pushing everything back - the need to hug Tristan and refuse to let go, to just hold her, to punch Belial in the throat. All of that can wait. 

 

She does hold Tristan’s hand while they hurry through the brush back to Jeff and the laboratory entrance, just to feel Tristan’s warmth against her cold skin. She’s sad that she doesn’t miss it. She can barely remember the first time they met. 

 

It’s been so long. 

 

“What the fuck have you been doin'?” Tristan speaks up. Peggy ignores how there’s anger in her tone. Now isn’t the time for an argument. 

 

“With the Family,” Peggy replies. “I only recently managed to escape.” 

 

“And you didn’t try to contact me?” 

 

“If I had known you were close by, I would have. Believe me.” Peggy’s chest hurts at how cutting Tristan’s words are. But they’re true. “But unfortunately I had to focus on myself. Zalgo was beginning to stir again, and I couldn’t risk corruption.” 

 

“ _What_?” 

 

They make it back into the clearing, where Jeff’s leaning against the entrance with his eyes closed. Peggy is immediately hit with the stench of decay - like rotten eggs sitting in the hot sun. Lilith rises as a greeting. 

 

Jeff’s eyes open. He raises a hand to wave at them, but then he sees Tristan. 

 

His hand falls to his side, and the two of them just stare at each other. Peggy runs through what she should say - she can’t introduce them, they clearly know each other. Whatever’s there, between them - it’s painful. For both of them.

 

Tristan’s eyes narrow. “Where’s Rowan?” 

 

Peggy hasn’t known him for very long, but she recognizes the agony in his eyes that never seems to leave when he forces himself to say it. “Rowan’s gone.” 

 

Tristan doesn’t say anything, but she takes a step back, and Peggy hears her breathing hitch. 

 

“Rowan isn’t gone,” Peggy says. “Not yet. We’re here because I believe there may have been another Elementalist in hiding. The more of them we can get on our side, the more we have a chance of restoring Rowan to his body. But this is going to require cooperation.” She turns to Tristan. “There will be no mentioning of Rowan - not until we’ve got what we came here for. I’ll explain everything to you later.” 

 

She nods. 

 

Peggy turns to the lab entrance. None of the lights are on, there’s a thick layer of smoke and dust blocking her view of the inside - this is going to be a nightmare. She motions for Moses and Lilith to remain outside. 

 

Then she takes a deep breath and enters the lab. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha what's character consistency??


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which - oh, holy fuck.

My eyes sting at the atmosphere and the stench. 

 

Peggy has flashlights - thank the fucking Lord. 

 

The smell of decomposition, mold, and dust distracts me from Tristan’s footsteps behind me. I’m not sure what to think - I want to hit her, or yell something, but it’s not like it’s her fault. I admire Peggy’s ability to stay calm throughout all of this. First finding Tristan after so many years, and now walking through an underground graveyard that smells like a hot dumpster. 

 

We come across the first bloodstain, dried a sickly orange-brown, smeared from the floor to the ceiling. There’s an emaciated body lying on the ground, arms and legs all twisted. From then on, we don’t find anymore bodies along the hallway. Just piles of flesh and decomp stains. 

 

“This is fucking nasty,” Belial says, sounding far behind me. I glance back and see the beam of his flashlight trained on a fork that splits into two more corridors. “Hey Firecracker, any idea what killed the fuckers?” 

 

Peggy squats next to a decomp stain, mostly piles of gooey blood and bits of flesh and hair. She leans forwards, and I idly admire her balancing abilities - I would have fallen over face-first into the mess. 

 

While Peggy tries to discern the cause of death from the limited amount of bodies we’ve found, Tristan gently rests a hand on my shoulder. 

 

Her voice is less than a whisper in the stifling air. “Portmore . . . was that him?” 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Fuck,” she hisses. 

 

“What happened to your face?” I ask. 

 

“Slenderman. I killed Brian.” Tristan laughs humorlessly. “Smashed his head against some rocks, couldn’t even identify ‘em.” 

 

I force a smile. “Guess we both got scars from the son of a bitch now.” 

 

“Yeah, but that shit hurt my eye. Can’t hardly fuckin’ see anymore out of it.” Tristan glances towards Belial, who’s kicking one of the hollowed-out corpses with his boot. “The fuck’s that? That kid’s got terrible manners.” 

 

“That’s Belial. He’s the same age as Peggy.” 

 

“What, really? No, no way. I used to know him. He’s no older than eighteen.” 

 

“No, he’s twenty-eight. He’s older than me.” I shrug. “That’s just Belial. Don’t ask him about history, or evolution, or chemistry, or Victorian fashion. He won’t ever stop talking.” 

 

“Found something,” Peggy calls. 

 

We all grudgingly huddle around Peggy’s discovery: Another body, much more intact than the other ones we’ve found so far. She moves it with her boot, and dirt spills from the empty cavern of the ribcage. I realize that weeds are growing from the mouth, the empty eye sockets, the holes in the arms and legs where flesh has fallen off in clumps. 

 

“An Elementalist has been here,” she says. “I cannot sense them currently. They are gone.” 

 

“An earth Elementalist?” I guess. “Interesting. How many are there?” 

 

“Fire, earth, water, wind, and space,” Peggy lists. “As for the _known_ Elementalists, I would suppose less than ten. But I do know of one. His name was Eliver Saurez. He was killed three years ago.” 

 

I wince and back away from the body. “Do you know how big this lab is?” 

 

“No,” Peggy admits. “It’s best if we split up. I’ll try finding the main offices. Belial, I want you to search for any survivors. Tristan,” she hesitates here, and I catch a painful look the two of them quietly share, “can you search for a power source?” 

 

“Of course.” 

 

Peggy sends Moses with Tristan and Lilith with Belial, and after that, we all make makeshift bandanas out of some cloth and go our separate ways. 

 

* * *

 

I take the corridor, trying every door until one of them is unlocked. It leads into a small, decrepit room, bare of anything but a calendar on the wall and a cot in the corner. There’s a small vent in the ceiling, too small for a human to climb through. I hold the door open with my foot while I shine my flashlight around. 

 

It looks like a prison cell. There are little details in here that make my stomach roll - scratches several centimeters deep in the concrete wall, the blankets strewn about and torn to shreds, blood smeared up one wall. There’s no slot in the door, no cracks, and even the vent looks to be tightly sealed. There’s no way, with the limited air, that someone would be able to survive in here. 

 

The floors in here are tile, and I see odd spots where they’ve been bleached. There’s a single drain at the bottom. There are tiny holes in the wall, lining from the bottom to the top. 

 

My skin prickles when I realize it’s not a prison cell. It’s a gas chamber. 

 

I quickly slam the door shut and take a few steps back, trying to control my ragged breathing. I hurry down the corridor until I can find another room that’s unlocked. It’s the same as the one from before - a single cot, a vent, and the drain in the center of the floor. Scratches in the wall, bloodstains. 

 

I hear a banging down the hallway and quickly aim my flashlight towards it. The noise stops for a moment, and then picks back up again, this time a low moaning, barely sounding human. 

 

I quietly walk towards the sound, barely daring to breathe, holding my gun in front of me with my flashlight on top. “Hello?” I call. 

 

Then the wailing starts. It barely lasts for a few seconds, but it’s definitely not human. And then I hear the clicking. Scratching on the tile behind me. 

 

I don’t turn around in time. The Blessed’s claws rip through my shirt when it hits me, and I blindly pull the trigger. It stuns it, and it gives me enough time to fire again, directly into its gaping mouth. The Blessed’s head explodes from the back, showering the wall in brain matter and skin. I kick it off before it falls back on top of me and scramble to my feet. 

 

Another wail, this time more frantic, more vaguely in the sound of _help_. 

 

I run towards it, listening to the sounds of screeching and clicking around me, and then a sharp banging on the doors that almost has me falling over. The Blessed are trapped inside of these gas chambers - does that mean I’d let one out? I hadn’t seen it in the room. 

 

Unless it was clinging to the ceiling above me. 

 

I keep running, too afraid to look behind me. I hear distant shouting and gunshots. The lab must be infested with them. I briefly recall Peggy telling me about the nest - swarms of the Blessed, all packed tightly together like roaches. My stomach twists. 

 

The hallway splits into two more, but the second is a corridor filled with more of the gas chambers. I decide to ignore it and run down the second one. Once the clicking and metal banging is gone, I slow down to a jog, trying to catch my breath. 

 

The wailing starts again, this time closer. I hurry to the first door and peer through the dirty window. It looks like an interrogation room. So does the second one, and the one across the hall. The plaques on the wall are too banged up and bloodstained to read.

 

There are bodies. They wear the white armor of the SDSC, and most of them are torn to bits, strewn haphazardly about the hallway. One is even mangled so badly that the leg is hanging from the ceiling, entrails wrapped around a pipe. The smell is horrendous. 

 

“Hello?” I call out again. The air seems to tense when I do, and then there’s a weak banging from one of the rooms farther down the hallway. I quickly navigate around the bodies, trying not to slip in fluids or blood, and start knocking on the doors. 

 

The third one gets a response. I try the handle and find that it’s locked. 

 

“Who’s in there?” I ask. 

 

I get a response; it’s a female voice, and I can tell she’s weak. I can’t make out what she’s saying. 

 

“Can you open the door for me?” I try the handle again and push with my whole body. The door moves a bit, and I hear a sharp noise of surprise. She’s leaning against it. “Can you move so I can get the door open?” 

 

I hear a heavy thud, and then the door swings open. 

 

The woman skitters back when I shine my flashlight on her. She’s naked, so wasted I can see where her skin is stretched thin over her bones. She’s so pale that it looks like she’s glowing when the light falls on her. The fear in her eyes makes my chest burn. 

 

I kneel a bit, glancing around the room. It was pitch black before. How long has she been down here? 

 

I shrug my jacket off and hand it to her. She just stares, shaking so badly I can hear her teeth chittering. 

 

“What’s your name?” I ask gently. 

 

“Wyn,” she breathes. I settle to my knees and look over her wounds - mostly small scratches and some nasty bruising. I wonder if she’s the one who did that. Desperate to get out, throwing herself against the door until she was too tired to do so. 

 

“I’m Jeff,” I say. “I’m with some friends. We’re looking for survivors. We’re not with the SDSC.” 

 

Wyn relaxes a bit. She’s . . . younger, it looks like. Maybe my age. It’s hard to tell, exactly, with how thin and haggard she is. I help her into the jacket and zip it up. 

 

“Do you know what happened here?” I ask her. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to immediately take her into the hallway where all those dead bodies are. And if we have to run . . . 

 

Wyn is still trembling. Her eyes are wide, haunted. “I - I heard screaming. Gunfire. All the lights shut off, and when she came down the hallway, it was -” Her eyes fill with tears, and she starts to violently shake. “So much blood, came underneath the door.” 

 

“Who’s she?” 

 

“Eunsook.” 

 

“Is she an Elementalist?” 

 

“Yes,” Wyn breathes. “Yes, she is. She makes monsters. They all do.” 

 

I try not to frown. I don’t want to set her off. “Monsters?” 

 

“The earth ones, they - they make things. Make them come to life.” 

 

It’s a little . . . odd how well she can speak. I don’t like imagining her in here, alone, talking to herself so she doesn’t lose her voice when she needs it. I blink away tears and help her to her feet. She’s light enough that I could probably carry her, but Wyn seems insistent on walking. 

 

She’s going to die, I realize. The poor woman is barely clinging to life. There are veins traveling up and down her arms. Like Rowan. 

 

“She killed so many of them,” Wyn is rambling. Her voice starts giving out, cracking. Her chest is heaving with the effort of speaking. “The Blessed. Rev - Reverend Davis told us - he told us they’d keep us safe, but - they killed her, they killed my baby.” 

 

I bite the inside of my cheek. Don’t cry now, Jeff, dammit. 

 

“My little girl, they took her, and they - they put her in one of those chambers, and -” 

 

“Hush.” I stop walking, my eyes beginning to focus on something in the darkness down the hallway. Soft tapping, like boots. “Hello?” 

 

My flashlight outlines a figure. I freeze, and Wyn clutches to me in horror. 

 

I can’t hold the flashlight and the gun, and I can’t put Wyn down, especially if I have to start fighting. She could too easily get caught in the crossfire. I slowly bring the flashlight to my hip, ready to drop it and grab my gun and blindly fire into the darkness. 

 

“. . . Jeff?” Tristan’s voice echoes down the hallway.

 

I groan and relax. “Down here.” 

 

Tristan’s pale face comes into the light a moment later, and she squints and bats cobwebs away. “Shit. This place is dark. My light died.” She holds up her flashlight and taps it against the wall. “You found a survivor?” 

 

“This is Wyn.” I hold her tighter, afraid she’s going to slip from my grasp with how badly she’s shaking. “We aren’t going back down there. Lots of bodies and gas chambers.” 

 

Tristan’s eyes go wide. “Gas chambers?” 

 

“Yeah. They were filled with the Blessed.” I look down at Wyn. “Are you alright? Think you can keep going?” 

 

Wyn nods quickly, eyeing Tristan nervously. I realize my light is making Tristan’s fangs glint. I shine it away from her face. 

 

The three of us slowly make our way back down the hall. Wyn starts to shake more, shuffling every once in a while, her nails digging painfully into my arm. I feel the warmth where the veils curl under her skin, slowly making their way to her face. 

 

“I’m going to die,” Wyn finally breathes. She sounds calm. 

 

I hold her tighter. “You’re going to be fine. We’ll get you out.” 

 

Wyn’s brittle laugh makes my skin crawl. “All the testing and - and those trips, and - and I’m going to die in this place.” 

 

I hear Tristan suck in a breath. 

 

“You’ll be alright,” I assure her. I know she’s right, but it still hurts to think she’ll never leave this place. “I’ll get you outside. If you’re gonna die, you’re gonna die in the sunlight.” 

 

Wyn sighs, almost dreamily. “I haven’t seen the sun in years.” 

 

“Be quiet,” Tristan hisses. Wyn and I both freeze. I hear clicking, the sound of nails against concrete, coming up from behind us. “Get in front of me. Quickly. Take Wyn an' run down the hall. It leads back to the entrance.” 

 

Then I realize - “Wait, where’s Moses?” 

 

Tristan’s hands are shaking around her gun. “He’s waitin’ at the end of the hall. Just go!” 

 

I grab Wyn and run. 

 

I drop the flashlight halfway down the hall and it shines directly on us, lighting up about halfway down. Wyn cries out in pain when I stumble over a dead body and I hear something pop. Her nails dig into my neck and she presses her face against my shoulder. 

 

I hear Moses barking, but it’s not at us. There’s another Blessed up above, and I hear fighting and clicking and the sound of flesh being torn. 

 

“That way!” Wyn gasps, weakly throwing her arm towards a soft light. I realize there’s another corridor - this one has power. Peggy or Belial must have found the generators. 

 

We run - honestly, it’s more of a quick hobble - down the corridor. None of the doors are unlocked, but there’s a podium-like structure at the end with a large open room with no door. It’s not the best place to hide for a moment and recollect ourselves, but it’ll do. 

 

I get Wyn in first, and she collapses to the ground and begins to dry heave. I quickly twirl around, plant a foot on the ground, and draw my gun. 

 

The end of the corridor looks like a solid black wall. Thank whoever found the light switches. 

 

Once the sounds are died down when the fighting is drawn away, I turn to Wyn to make sure she’s alright. She’s backed into the corner, twisting my jacket in a fist, coughing up a strand of saliva and bile. The corners of her lips are foaming. 

 

“Shit,” I hiss, pulling her hair back. The veins are reaching up to the corners of her eyes. “Just breathe. Don’t heave.” 

 

“I’m going to die,” she moans. 

 

“No you aren’t. Just breathe, Wyn.” 

 

“I lied.” 

 

My finger goes to the trigger. 

 

Wyn bends over until her forehead touches the ground. She’s shaking with sobs. “Please - I - I didn’t - I did it, I - she found me - they’re all -” 

 

“Wyn.” I brush her hair back. 

 

“I killed those men -” 

 

I clench my jaw. 

 

“She put me in the room, she - I was -” Wyn chokes on a sob and gags. “They wanted to - try - try - try something new, it was me, they - infusion -” 

 

“Wyn, please, calm down.” I’m starting to panic. “What are you talking about?” 

 

“I _hear_ them,” she screams, grabbing the sides of her head. “Fuck, shit! I hear them!” 

 

“What - what are you - what do you hear?” 

 

“The fucking _spiders_!” 

 

Wyn abruptly sits up, meets my gaze, and then slams her head against the ground. 

 

I go to restrain her, but she throws a hand out and one of the veins bursts out of her skin, almost reaching my face before I jump back. 

 

“Get away,” she moans desperately. “They spread. You should have left me in the room.” 

 

“Wyn, _please_. Just - just look at me.” 

 

“It can transfer. I’m a Behemoth.” 

 

I finally stop and stare at her, lost for words. Wyn is still sobbing, trying desperately to catch her breath so she can speak. “They took a Behemoth, made it fuse with me. I started hearing everything. They wanted to train me. To be a part of the army.” She pulls on her hair, so hard it rips right out of her scalp. “I _broke_.” 

 

I hear a clicking at the end of the hallway. Loud. The sound of several claws dragging against the concrete. My heart starts to race. 

 

“They’re coming,” Wyn breathes. “We’re both going to die here.” 

 

“Wyn, we’ll -” 

 

She suddenly looks up, eyes wide and gleaming with tears. Her lips stop trembling, and that eerie look fades from her eyes. “Oh, my God,” she whispers, slowly placing her palms against the floor. “Oh _God_. I’m so sorry.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

Wyn reaches forwards, presses her hand against my forehead, and a white-hot surge of pain goes through my entire body before she blinks out of existence. 

 

* * *

 

The plan worked well. 

 

Until it didn’t. 

 

I find Moses at the end of the hallway, tearing his third Blessed apart, but I don’t find Jeff or Wyn. 

 

I freak out and almost shoot Belial when he runs down the hallway, covered in blood and looking like he’s seen a ghost. He assures me that it’s not _his_ blood, and then asks where I got my blood, and I shakily explain how difficult it’d been to rip a Blessed’s throat apart. 

 

He looks impressed. Calls me Hulk. 

 

“You know, the green hair, brute strength, muscles, all that  _phwoar_ ,” is his explanation. 

 

Belial says we need to find Jeff. I’m torn between worrying more about Peggy or Jeff. But eventually Belial convinces me that Peggy could tear this place apart if she really wanted to, so I agree to focus on Jeff. 

 

“He ran down this hallway with a survivor he found,” I say, right before the entire structure groans and shakes. 

 

Dust rains from the ceiling and it seems to dislodge the smell of decay just a bit. Belial wipes his face and shudders. “Well, the only way out is _there_ ,” he points towards the distant entrance, “and this hall is one-way, and I didn’t see him or a survivor.” 

 

I look up, right when the place shakes again, this time violent enough to make me stumble. Then we hear shrieking - not human, but the sounds of the Blessed when they’re in pain, like car tires screeching. They’re all coming from the hallway. 

 

And then there’s an explosion. It makes the laboratory shudder, and Belial grabs my arm for a moment while he tries to keep his footing. 

 

“Holy tits,” he breathes, waving dust away. “We should probably - _oh my God what is that_.” 

 

His eyes focus on something behind me and I turn around. 

 

There’s a thick smoke spilling from the hallway, right as the power flickers on. There are Blessed out in the hallway, torn to bits, just like the men I saw in the hallway. My heart drops. 

 

Belial and I share a look before we both take off towards the door they’re coming from. The smoke is thick, and makes a soft hissing noise as it moves. Not normal smoke. 

 

We find ourselves in a short corridor, with a large, open pod at the end. There must have been a doorway at some point, but now it’s just a massive hole, burning slightly, scorched around the edges. I see two figures in the center, one a charred husk and the other Jeff, knocked unconscious and bloody. 

 

“Oh, God,” I breathe, once my eyes land on what used to be Wyn. Her arm is still stretched out, as if she were reaching for Jeff. 

 

Belial quickly leaves the room, gagging all the way back to the hall. 

 

I pick around the bodies and make my way towards Jeff. He’s curled up, hands on his head. It looks like he was twisting, with how oddly he’s laying there. I kneel beside him and gently shake him. There are tiny veins branching from the corners of his eyes. 

 

“. . . Tristan?” 

 

I turn and see Peggy at the entrance, taking in the damage with wide eyes. 

 

“Jeff needs help,” I say hoarsely. 

 

If Peggy notices the veins, she doesn’t decide to comment on it. She wraps one of Jeff’s arms around her shoulder and grabs his waist. She doesn’t look like she needs any help carrying him out of the room, so I stay behind and look at Wyn. Jeff’s jacket remains on her in tatters. 

 

“The fuck are _those_ things?” Belial says loudly, once I leave the corridor. He’s talking about the veins that are slowly receding. Peggy and I watch them until they disappear completely. 

 

“Signs of disease,” Peggy says sharply. “But I’ve never seen them disappear. If he begins showing symptoms of those turning into the Blessed, we will have to kill him.” 

 

I bristle. “You’re not killin’ Jeff.” 

 

“Would you rather him twist himself into one of _those_?” Peggy jerks a thumb behind her, towards the mass of mutilated bodies. “I’ve seen it. It’s a painful process. They begin losing their memories, hearing things. It would be mercy to put a bullet in his head and bury him.” 

 

“Slow down there, Firecracker,” Belial laughs, though he sounds a bit nervous too. “We don’t have to kill anybody. Not yet. He’s fine, look at him. Just dandy, he’s got no veins. Not right now, anyway.” 

 

Peggy nods briskly. “We need to leave.” 

 

I decide not to argue. 

 

* * *

 

We settle about half a mile away, in a small cave by a lake, surrounded by a thick forest. I make a shitty bed for Jeff and lay him down by a fire Belial gets going. He’s stopped trembling, he’s not cold to the touch anymore, and the veins are gone. I call it a miracle, especially after how often everything usually goes to shit. 

 

Peggy sits on a small rock by the lake, staring out onto the water. I decide to join her by sundown, after making sure Jeff’s vitals are fine. 

 

She’s different. I’m not surprised, especially with the things she’s gone through, but . . . 

 

“I understand,” Peggy says quietly, once I’ve sat down next to her, “if you are disappointed.” 

 

I stare at the water. “I’m not disappointed.” 

 

Peggy kicks idly at the dirt. “I could not remain the same. Not after what I went through. It’s been . . . over ten years, and I understand if . . . if I am more of a stranger to you now than an old friend.” 

 

I chuckle. “You’re still the little shit I grew up with.” 

 

“We only knew each other for a year, Tristan.” 

 

“See? There it is.” 

 

She smiles. Her hair is starting to turn white. “I should explain what happened.” 

 

“With Rowan or you?” 

 

“Whichever you’d like.” 

 

I take a deep breath - the latter can be a conversation for later, when we’re not both being listened to by Belial. When I’m more stable. “Okay. What happened to Rowan? Jeff talked ‘bout it, but he didn’t say much.” 

 

Peggy quietly tells me everything. From finding out Rowan was an Elementalist, that he was targeted by Zalgo and offered protection by Slenderman. I sit and listen, trying to piece everything together from what she says to what Jeff, Rowan, and I found out four months ago. My stomach drops. 

 

Once she finishes, there’s a long silence. 

 

“Fuck,” I whisper, not sure what else to say. 

 

“What about you?” Peggy asks. 

 

“Well, I killed Brian. Got hit.” I motion to the scar on my face. “Tried to kill Slenderman, that didn’t fuckin’ work. So I left.” _Ran_ , more like, but I’d rather not relive those moments. 

 

Peggy just nods, and goes quiet and somber again. 

 

“Do you think Jeff'll be alright?” I ask. “He’s . . . been through a lot, hasn’t he?” 

 

She nods. “He should be fine. He is strong.” 

 

I glance back at him. Jeff hasn’t moved from his spot by the fire, but his face has relaxed, and he doesn’t look like he’s in pain anymore. “So he’s been with his mother for three months,” I murmur. “He looks so tired.” 

 

“Grief will do that,” Peggy says quietly. 

 

“What happened back in the lab?” 

 

“I’m not sure. It seems that something was transferred to him, but . . . I’ve never seen an explosion like that. Or the smoke.” Peggy frowns. “In the morning, we can head back towards the restaurant. Do you remember where your motorcycle is?” 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“You can follow us,” she says. “We’ll probably stop at a hotel for a while until I can contact one of my associates. It will give me time to go over the documents I recovered from the laboratory.” Peggy gets up and looks out over the water. “In the meantime, you should go recover your bike. Lilith will come with you, if you’d like.” 

 

“I’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Unless you wanna walk with me. We can . . . catch up.” 

 

Peggy glances towards the sunset, then back to Jeff and Belial. She smiles after a moment and picks her jacket up off the rock, slinging it over her shoulder. “I’d love to.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mm. roaches. also imagine not seeing your buddy for 10+ years and they like, totally forget about you.


End file.
